GIFT  OF 


in 

L/5. 


•V"* 


&> 
5^ 


LADIES'WREATH, 

i' 

A  SOUVENIR 


'ALL   SEASONS 


illustrate*. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPB,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY, 


1K>    W  \MiIV ,T     N 


CONTENTS. 


Woman  and  Fame 

The  Rebel  of  the  Cevcnncs, 11 

Hymn  to  the  Setting  Sun, 32 

The  One-Handed  Flute-Player, 35 

The  Poet's  Pen, 42 

The  Gleaner 44 

A  Lawyer's  Clerk's  Tale, 45 

Spring 63 

Foragers, 65 

What  is  Lore? 79 

Deliberation;  or,  the  Choice, 81 

The  Visionary 94 

The  March  of  Luxury 96 

The  Beautiful,  the  Good,  and  the  True, .    .    .    .112 

Common  Events, 115 

The  Devoted  Son, 131 

The  Smuggler 133 

To  my  Mother's  Bible 192 

The  Dreamer  to  his  Daughter, 193 

The  Fatal  Revenge, 198 

Love  in  Absence, 210 

Withered  Violets,    .    .    , 212 


6  CONTENTS. 

A  Steam  Voyage  on  the  Mediterranean 213 

Song, 229 

The  Useful  Family 230 

We  met  when  Life  and  Hope  were  new,     .    .    .239 

Zelica, 242 

The  Physician's  Levee, 245 

The  Evening  Fire, 254 

Celestina,  a  Spanish  Story 256 

The  Arab  Maid, 274 

Female  Devotedness, 277 

Upon  thy  Truth  relying, 281 

Thoughts, 283 

Remembrance, 286 

Song 244 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Presentation  "Plate. 

Illuminated  Title, ....  SHAW  So  Co. 

The  Gleaner O.  PBLTOJC,    ...    44 

The  Devoted  Son,     .    .    .  O.  PELTOJC,    .    .    .131 

Reading  the  Bible,    .    .    .  O.  PBLXOIT,    .    .    .192 

Zelica, 0.  PKLTOX,    .    .    .242 


LADIES'   WREATH 


WOMAN  AND  FAME, 

BY  MBS.  HEMANS. 

Tnon  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame ! 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 

Above  mortality. 

Away !  to  me  —  a  woman — bring 
Sweet  flowers  from  affection's  spring. 

Thou  hast  green  laurel  leaves,  that  twine 

Into  so  proud  a  wreath  ; 
For  that  resplendent  gift  of  thine, 

1  It-roes  have  smiled  in  death  : 
Give  me  from  some  kind  hand  a  flower, 
The  record  of  one  happy  hour ! 


10  WOMAN    AND    FAMK. 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 
Can  bid  each  life-pulse  beat 

As  when  a  trumpet's  note  hath  blown, 
Calling  the  l>ruvc  to  meet: 

But  mine,  let  mine  — a  woman's  breast, 

By  words  of  home-born  love  be  bless'd. 

A  hollow  sound  is  in  thy  song, 

A  mockery  in  thine  eye, 
To  the  sick  heart  that  doth  but  long 

For  aid,  for  sympathy  — 
For  kindly  looks  to  cheer  it  on, 
For  tender  accents  that  are  gone. 

Fame,  Fame !  thou  canst  not  be  the  stay 

Unto  the  drooping  reed, 
The  cool  fresh  fountain  in  the  day 

Of  the  soul's  feverish  need : 
Where  must  the  lone  one  turn  or  flee  ? 
Not  unto  thee  — oh !  not  to  thee ! 


11 


THE   REBEL   OP   THE   CEVENNES. 

BT    S.    6.    6. 

IT  was  in  the  year  1703,  while  Louis  the 
Fourteenth  was  engaged  in  hostilities  with  for- 
eign powers,  that  a  domestic  war  of  singular 
character  was  baffling  the  skill  of  one  of  his 
bravest  generals  in  the  south  of  France.  The 
persecuted  Huguenots  had  been  scattered  abroad, 
carrying  with  them  to  other  climes  their  indom- 
itable valor  and  all-enduring  faith, — and  much, 
too,  that  France  might  have  been  glad  to  retain, 
for  the  sake  of  her  own  best  interests,  —  their 
industrious  habits,  their  skill  in  useful  arts,  and 
their  correct  morals.  A  few  of  their  expelled 
clergy  had  had  the  courage  to  return ;  but,  de- 
prived of  the  wisest  and  best  of  the  Protestant 
party,  the  untutored  mountaineers  of  the  Ce- 
vennes  had  become  the  prey  of  designing  or 
deluded  fanatics.  A  strange  madness  had  bro- 
ken out  among  them ;  prophets  and  prophet- 
esses had  appeared,  and  the  people  listened  to 
the  voices  of  women  and  children,  as  to  oracles. 
When  the  arm  of  military  discipline  was  raised 
to  lash  or  crush  them  into  submission,  the  un- 


12  THE    REBEL    OF 

daunted  spirit  of  mountain  liberty  blazed  up ; 
and  heroes  sprang  forth  from  the  fastnesses  of 
the  Cevennes  and  the  Vivarez  to  defy  the  power 
of  their  sovereign.  It  was  a  fierce  and  pro- 
tracted contest ;  and,  at  the  time  when  our  tale 
opens,  the  Sieur  de  Montrevel,  an  officer  of 
high  repute,  had  been  sent  against  the  rebels. 
The  severity  with  which  he  treated  those  who 
fell  into  his  hands,  struck  no  terror  into  the  sur- 
vivors :  they  seized  every  opportunity  of  making 
stern  reprisals ;  and,  as  he  advanced  farther 
into  the  heart  of  their  territory,  carrying  devas- 
tation among  their  humble  cottages,  and  the 
fields  which  they  had  almost  created  on  the 
bare  rocks,  they  fought  him  at  every  pass  with 
frenzied  courage. 

He  arrived  one  sunny  morning  at  a  defile, 
which  led  down  into  a  green  valley,  whose 
peaceful  hamlet  was  to  be  reduced  to  ashes. 
Not  a  human  being  appeared  along  the  gray 
cliffs  above,  not  a  living  thing  stirred  in  the 
silent  village  ;  a  few  smokes  rose  from  the  cot- 
tages, but  no  children  sported  on  the  green,  no 
old  men  sat  before  their  doors,  no  dogs  barked 
at  the  stranger's  approach.  On  marched  the 
well-trained  soldiers  into  the  scene  of  their 
work  ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  brands,  snatched 
from  the  lately  deserted  hearths,  kindled  a 
crackling  conflagration ;  the  red  flames  and 


THE    CEVENNES.  13 

black  smoke  rushed  up,  and  the  soldiers,  again 
forming  into  ranks  on  a  green  slope  where  the 
rising  breeze  drove  the  smoke  from  them,  sent 
forth  a  shout  of  triumph  to  the  surrounding 
jocks.  The  rocks  echoed  it  back  again  and 
again,  and,  as  the  last  reverberation  died  away 
among  the  hills,  another  and  yet  wilder  sound 
answered  it  from  the  depths  of  their  forests. 
A  yell  of  mingled  voices  arose  from  unseen 
spectators,  which  might  have  thrilled  stouter 
hearts  than  those  of  the  armed  myrmidons  of 
power.  The  march  was  again  resumed  ;  there 
appeared  to  be  no  farther  passage  through  the 
everlasting  barrier  that  rose  beyond  the  village, 
and  the  Sieur  de  Montrevel  led  his  men  back 
through  the  defile  he  had  descended  so  quietly 
an  hour  before.  But  at  a  sudden  turn  in  the 
road,  his  quick  eye  discerned  -the  figures  of 
several  mountaineers,  vanishing  behind  the  trees 
and  rocks ;  and  he  halted,  that  his  men,  already 
panting  from  the  fatigue  of  climbing  the  steep, 
might  take  breath  before  encountering  the  next 
and  still  more  precipitous  ascent.  It  was  a  sud- 
den and  fortunate  pause  ;  the  next  minute  a  fear- 
ful sound  was  heard  breaking  the  solemn  still- 
ness ;  his  men's  eyes  turned  wildly  in  every 
direction,  not  knowing  at  first  whence  it  pro- 
ceeded ;  but  presently  a  tremendous  rock  came 
thundering  and  crashing  down  the  precipice  on 
2 


14  THE    REBEL    OF 

their  right,  bearing  earth,  stones,  and  trees  be- 
fore it ;  and  dashing  into  the  centre  of  the  road, 
with  a  weight  and  fury  which  would  have  crushed 
to  the  dust  the  leader  and  front  rank  of  the  par- 
ty, had  they  not  halted  at  the  moment  they  did. 
Disappointed  in  their  purpose,  the  peasants  now 
appeared  armed  with  ru  MS  of  every  de- 

scription, and  fast  and  heavy  caino  down  showers 
of  stones  upon  the  soldiers,  as  they  obeyed  their 
commander,  and  hastened  to  scramble  over  the 
fallen  rocks  and  rubbish.  Not  a  shot  was  lired 
till  Montrevel  espied  two  figures,  which  mi^ht 
well  arrest  his  attention,  even  in  such  a  tiunncnl 
as  this.  On  a  cliff  which  overlooked  the  sc< -m •, 
and  from  whose  railed  side  it  was  plain  that  the 
rock  had  been  hurled,  knelt  a  female  in  an  at- 
titude of  earnest  and  almost  frantic  supplication  ; 
her  bare  arms  thrown  wildly  up,  —  her  hands 
clasped,  —  her  hair  and  scarlet  drapery  stream- 
ing on  the  wind,  —  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  blue 
sky.  She  was  apparently  heedless  of  the  con- 
fusion below ;  and,  above  all  the  din,  her  shrill 
but  unintelligible  accents  could  be  plainly  dis- 
tinguished. By  her  side  stood  a  slight  but  grace- 
ful young  man  leaning  with  perfect  composure 
on  his  hunting-spear,  and  occasionally  giving  di- 
rections with  his  voice  and  gestures  to  his  rude 
followers.  He  was  clad,  like  many  of  them,  in 
a  white  tunic  ;  but  a  single  eagle-feather  in  his 


THE   CEVENNES.  15 

cap  marked  him  as  the  youthful  leader  of  the 
Camisards,  the  celebrated  Cavalier.  No  sooner 
did  Montrevel  behold  this  apparition,  than  a  cry 
burst  from  his  lips :  —  "  They  are  there  !  to  the 
chase !  to  the  chase !  "  and  in  a  moment  the 
soldiers  were  climbing  the  rough  sides  of  the 
pass,  driving  the  peasants  before  them  in  the 
sudden  onset,  firing  and  reloading  continually. 
The  prophetess,  —  La  Grande  Marie,  as  she 
was  termed,  —  was  dimly  seen  through  the 
smoke  still  on  her  knees  and  immovable,  while 
the  sounds  of  the  musket-shots  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  Cavalier,  confident  that  more  than 
earthly  power  would  defend  the  being  he  thought 
supernaturally  gifted,  had  rushed  to  direct  the 
operations  of  his  scattered  followers.  To  his 
amazement,  however,  she  remained  in  her 
ecstatic  trance,  till  a  ball  whizzed  by  her; 
and  then,  rising  slowly,  she  looked  around 
with  an  eye  from  which  gleamed  the  light 
of  insanity.  It  seemed  as  if  a  consciousness 
of  her  danger  then  crossed  her  mind,  for 
she  glanced  with  some  eagerness  to  the  right 
and  left,  as  if  examining  her  means  of  escape ; 
and,  as  two  French  soldiers  sprang  upon  the 
ledge  she  occupied,  she  made  an  effort  to  throw 
herself  down  to  a  yet  more  narrow  and  hazard- 
ous spot.  But  their  motions  were  too  quick  for 
the  poor  lunatic  ;  and,  as  the  infatuated  peasantry 


16  THE    KEHF.L    OF 

saw  their  prophetess  rudely  seized,  her  power- 
less hands  bound  with  leathern  belts,  while 
her  head  sunk  despairingly  on  her  breast,  they 
uizuin  sent  forth  a  howl,  which  startled  the  wolves 
in  their  dens.  It  was  in  vain  that  Cavalier  now 
e  to  rally  the  undisciplined  insurgents ; 
astounded,  panic-stricken,  at  an  event  so  unex- 
pected as  the  capture  of  La  Grande  Marie,  they 
lifted  not  a  hand  against  the  triumphant  soldiery, 
but  hovered  along  the  precipices  above  the  road 
and  gazed  in  stupid  amazement  at  their  progress. 
When  Cavalier  reminded  them  that  she  had  the 
power  to  save  herself  yet  from  the  hands  of  the 
destroyer,  and  would  undoubtedly  put  it  forth  in 
some  unlooked-for  miracle,  a  gleam  of  hope 
brightened  their  rugged  faces;  but  they  only 
watched  the  more  intently  for  the  anticipated 
exhibition  of  superhuman  power.  Montrevel 
and  his  party  at  length  disengaged  themselves 
in  safety  from  the  passes  where  alone  their  ene- 
mies could  annoy  them,  and  marched  down 
with  floating  banners  and  gay  music  upon  the 
green  plains.  The  mountaineers  still  kept  them 
in  view  from  the  nearest  heights,  striving  with 
sad  and  wishful  eyes  to  distinguish  the  form  of 
the  prophetess.  Instead  of  proceeding  with 
rapid  steps  to  the  white  town,  which  glittered  in 
the  sunshine  at  a  few  miles  distance,  Montrevel 
no  sooner  found  himself  on  level  ground,  safe 


THE    CEVENNES.  17 

from  the  assaults  of  hill-warfare,  than  he  halted 
near  a  solitary  tall  tree,  which  stretched  its 
branches  abroad,  as  if  to  invite  the  heated  travel- 
ler to  its  shadow.  There  was  a  pause ;  the  sol- 
diers were  taking  breath  after  their  hurried 
march ;  there  was  a  bustle  ;  but  they  did  not 
disperse,  nor  sit  down  on  the  grass  to  rest  their 
weary  limbs ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  more,  their 
march  was  resumed  with  increased  speed.  As 
they  cleared  the  ground  under  the  large  tree, 
the  distant  spectators  caught  sight  of  a  fearful 
object.  It  was  the  well-known  scarlet  drapery 
—  it  was  the  body  of  their  prophetess  —  sus- 
pended from  one  of  the  lower  branches  of  the 
oak.  No  cry  burst  now  from  their  lips ;  not 
daring  to  believe  their  own  eyes,  they  strained 
their  gaze,  then  looked  in  each  other's  faces 
with  blank  and  speechless  horror.  Still  doubt- 
ing,—  still  hoping,  —  Cavalier  was  the  first  to 
rush  down  to  the  place  of  execution,  while  the 
sound  of  martial  music  yet  came  on  the  breeze, 
and  the  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  the  troops,  who 
had  now  reached  a  high  road,  was  still  in  view. 
La  Grande  Marie  was  dead.  Her  body  was  yet 
warm,  but  the  spirit  had  forsaken  it ;  and  never 
more  should  the  bold  accents  of  her  prophecies 
kindle  the  souls  of  the  Camisards  against  their 
oppressors.  With  reverent  hands  they  bore  her 
remains  away  to  a  cavern  among  their  remote 
2* 


18  THE    REBEL    OF 

fastnesses ;  for  in  the  minds  of  some,  there  lin- 
gered even  now  the  hope  of  a  miracle  more 
stupendous  than  any  hitherto  performed  by  their 
departed  friend.  Upon  the  brow  of  Cavalier, 
however,  a  cloud  had  settled,  such  as  that  open 
placid  countenance  had  never  yet  worn.  It  was 
not  despair  which  brooded  on  his  heart ;  but  a 
profound  sorrow,  and  a  feeling  that  all  now  de- 
pended on  his  own  unaided  and  desperate  ef- 
forts. It  is  only  on  the  unreflecting,  that  a  sense 
of  increased  responsibility  falls  lightly. 

It  was  scarce  high  noon,  when  the  party  of 
royalists  encamped  in  safety  near  the  town  of 

N ,  after  their  merry  morning's  work,     lie- 

fore  nightfall,  Cavalier  had  scoured  the  moun- 
tains in  the  neighborhood  ;  and,  either  in  person 
or  by  his  emissaries,  had  drawn  together  a  large 
and  furious  body  of  peasants.  As  the  sun  sunk 
towards  the  west,  black  clouds  gathered  round 
his  couch,  and,  glowing  like  fire  at  his  approach, 
soon  shrouded  the  blazing  orb  in  premature  twi- 
light. The  wind  howled  among  the  hills  with 
those  portentous  sounds  which,  to  the  practised 
ear,  foreboded  a  sudden  and  violent  storm  ;  and 
Cavalier  smiled  triumphantly  as  he  looked  at  the 
gloomy  heavens,  and  hurried  over  the  rocks  to 
the  place  of  rendezvous.  A  voice  calling  him 
by  name  arrested  him  on  his  way,  and,  ere  he 
had  time  to  answer  the  call,  a  boy  scarce  fifteen, 


THE    CEVENNES.  19 

clad  in  the  ordinary  dress  of  a  shepherd,  sprang 
into  his  arms. 

"  My  brother !  my  Philip !  "  exclaimed  the 
young  leader,  "  why  are  you  here  ?  why  have 
you  left  the  upper  mountains  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  fight,  with  you,"  cried  the 
lad. 

"  My  child,"  returned  Cavalier,  "  you  know 
not  what  you  say.  With  that  beardless  cheek 
and  feeble  hand,  what  should  you  do  in  these 
fierce  battles  ?  " 

"  I  have  fought  with  the  wolves,  and  I  can 
fight  a  soldier,"  said  the  boy  ;  u  let  me  go  with 
you  ;  I  cannot  stay  there  among  the  women  and 
children." 

"But  you  must,  —  till  you  are  a  man,"  said 
Cavalier ;  "  who  will  tend  our  flocks,  if  our 
boys  neglect  their  charge  ?  " 

"  Let  the  women  watch  sheep,  or  let  the 
wolves  eat  them,"  answered  the  lad  ;  I  am  old 
enough,  and  strong  enough,  and  bold  enough, 
t  to  fight  these  robber-soldiers ;  and  if  you  will 
not  let  me  go  with  you,  brother,  I  will  fight  them 
alone.  People  say  they  have  taken  La  Grande 
Marie  ;  they  have  hung  her  on  a  tree  !  Is  it 
true  ?  " 

Cavalier's  countenance,  which  had  brightened 
as  he  looked  on  his  brave  young  brother,  grew 
sad  as  he  whispered,  "  It  is  too  true  ;  God  and 


20  THE    REBEL    OF 

his  angels  left  her,  —  we  know  not  why,  —  un- 
less that  we  might  revenge  her  murder." 

"  Then  let  me  go,  let  me  go !  "  cried  Philip, 
vehemently,  as  the  blood  rushed  into  his  face  ; 
and  he  strove  to  drag  his  brother  forward. 

u  Nay,"  returned  Cavalier,  calmly,  "  hear 
me,  Philip.  You  and  I  are  alone  in  the  world. 
We  have  no  parents  to  love  us,  no  brothers,  no 
sisters.  This  day  they  have  taken  away  the 
only  other  earthly  being  for  whom  I  cared,  and 
cut  deep  into  my  heart.  If  1  lose  you 
too, —  you  are  but  a  child,  Philip  ;  a  noble  but 
a  feeble  boy,  and  your  arm  could  not  ward  oil* 
the  death-stroke  aimed  against  you.  1  should 
behold  some  ruthless  sword  drinking  your  life- 
blood,  and  the  sight  would  palsy  my  own  right 
arm.  Go  back,  dear  Philip  !  you  are  too  young 
and  weak  for  these  bloody  encounters." 

"  But  you  are  scarce  twenty,"  rejoined  the 
boy,  "  and  you  have  not  the  stout  limbs  of  a 
mountaineer ;  yet  men  say,  God  has  given  you 
such  a  wise  head  and  bold  heart,  that  you  can 
lead  them  to  battle.  I  only  ask  to  follow  after 
you." 

"  In  time,  Philip,  in  time  !  Do  you  love  me, 
my  dear  brother  ?  " 

The  younger  Cavalier  looked  up  in  the  speak- 
er's face  with  amazement,  and  then  throwing  his 


THE   CEVENNES.  21 

arm  round  his  neck,  exclaimed,  "  You  know  1 
do,  Louis ! " 

"  Then  go  back  to  the  heights,  and  take  care 
of  your  precious  days,  Philip ;  for  I  tell  you, 
that,  if  you  are  in  this  conflict  to-night,  my 
thoughts  will  not  be  my  own.  I  have  more 
need  of  the  clear  head  than  of  the  strong  hand, 
to  guide  yonder  brave  but  undisciplined  men, — 
and  will  you  add  to  my  perplexities,  Philip  ?  " 

The  boy's  bright  color  faded,  and  his  head 
drooped,  as  he  said  dejectedly,  "  I  will  do  as 
you  bid  me,  brother." 

Cavalier  pressed  him  to  his  heart :  "  That  is 
well,  my  noble  boy !  I  love  you  all  the  better 
for  your  bold  purpose,  and  better  still  that  you 
can  submit  to  disappointment.  God  knows  if  1 
do  not  love  you  too  well,  for  I  feel  that  to  lose 
you  would  almost  break  my  heart.  Away,  then, 
to  the  upper  hills !  it  grows  late."  So  saying, 
he  disengaged  himself  hastily  from  the  lad,  and 
rushed  down  the  rocks.  As  he  looked  back 
IIMU  and  then  through  the  deepening  twilight,  he 
discerned  Philip  still  standing  in  a  melancholy 
attitude,  and  repeatedly  waved  his  hand  to  him 
to  depart.  But  it  was  not  till  Louis  had  entirely 
vanished  from  his  sight,  that  the  gallant  boy 
turned,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and  with  lingering 
steps  began  to  ascend  the  mountain. 

Cavalier's  plans  had  been  wisely  laid.     He 


22  THE    REBEL    OF 


aware,  that  a  blow  must  be  immediately 
struck,  to  revive  the  drooping  spirits  of  the  in- 
surgents. He  knew  that  reinforcements  for 
Mon:  revel's  party  were  on  the  march,  and  would 
probably  arrive  the  next  day  ;  and  that  no  time 
was  to  be  lost.  Before  midnight,  the  storm 
commenced,  as  if  in  league  with  the  oppressed  ; 
it  was  accompanied  by  a  violent  wind,  and,  in 
the  midst  of  its  fury,  his  followers,  divided  into 
parties,  approached  the  camp  of  Montrcvcl  un- 
perceived,  from  three  quarters,  and  burst  upon 
the  bewildered  soldiers,  while  the  thunder  roared 
their  heads,  and  the  hurricane  whirled  their 
light  tents  into  the  air.  Flushed  with  success, 
the  assailants  piked  their  victims  without  mercy, 
and  pursued  them  into  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
Cavalier  alone  was  cool  in  the  midst  of  the 
general  confusion  ;  and  his  ear  was  the  first  to 
catch  the  sound  of  drums  beating  to  arms  within 
the  town.  He  divined  the  truth  instantly.  See- 
ing the  approach  of  the  tempest,  the  officer  sent 
to  the  aid  of  Montrevcl  had  hurried  forward, 
and  had  quartered  his  troops  among  the  inhab- 
itants, not  two  hours  before  the  attack  of  the 
Camisards  ;  and  now  it  required  the  utmost  pow- 
ers of  the  young  leader  to  bring  together  his 
scattered  and  raging  adherents,  and  draw  them 
off  in  good  order  to  the  mountains.  He  suc- 
ceeded, however  ;  and  by  turning  occasionally 


THE    CEVENNES.  23 

to  face  his  antagonists,  then  flying  as  if  in  con- 
sternation, tempted  them  on  from  the  plains,  into 
the  broken  soil  at  the  baae  of  the  mountains. 
Before  this  was  accomplished,  the  brief  fury  of 
the  tempest  had  spent  itself;  the  clouds  were 
breaking  away ;  and  the  moon,  nearly  full, 
looked  out  at  times,  from  her  quiet  chambers  in 
the  sky,  on  the  scene  with  unwonted  brilliancy. 
Encouraged  by  this  circumstance,  the  hot-headed 
young  officer  who  commanded  the  fresh  troops 
of  the  royalists,  suffered  himself  to  be  lured 
among  the  hills ;  and  then,  soon  finding  his  error, 
endeavored  to  fight  his  way  back  with  a  bravery 
worthy  of  the  sons  of  freedom  themselves.  The 
slaughter  among  his  followers  was  great;  and 
they  might  perhaps  have  been  utterly  cut  to  pieces, 
had  Cavalier  retained  the  same  presence  of  mind 
which  had  marked  him  throughout  the  night.  But, 
while  he  was  engaged  in  superintending  the  mo- 
tions of  his  troops,  he  suddenly  perceived  a  con- 
flict going  on,  upon  the  very  edge  of  a  cliff  at  no 
great  distance,  which  made  his  blood  run  cold. 
It  was  a  boy,  —  sword  in  hand,  —  fighting  most 
gallantly  with  a  young  royalist  officer.  His  cap 
was  off*,  —  the  moon  shone  full  on  his  face, — 
it  was  Philip !  Cavalier  sprang  towards  him, 
but  at  the  same  moment  he  was  himself  set  upon 
by  two  soldiers,  and  compelled  to  fight  for  his 
own  life.  Still  he  glanced  continually  at  the 


24  THE    REBEL    OF 

rock  beyond ;  he  saw  that  Philip  was  unaware 
of  the  precipice  behind,  —  that  his  antagonist 
gained  upon  him,  —  that  the  boy  was  yielding, 
retreating,  but  still  parrying  the  thrusts  aimed 
at  his  body  ;  Cavalier  uttered  a  warning  cry,  but 
it  was  unheard,  and  in  an  instant  more,  as  Philip 
again  stepped  back  to  avoid  the  desperate  lunge 
of  his  foe,  —  he  disappeared!  A  mist  came 
over  the  eyes  of  Cavalier ;  he  fought  like  a 
blind  man ;  and,  had  not  some  of  his  own 
friends  come  to  his  rescue,  that  night  would 
have  seen  two  of  the  boldest  spirits  of  the 
Cevennes  for  nguished.  As  it  was, 

his  faculties  seemed  benumbed;  and,  deprived 
of  his  wise  command,  the  mountaineers  suili  red 
the  soldiers  to  extricate  themselves  from  their 
perilous  position,  and  march  back  with  some 
show  of  order  to  their  quarters,  under  the  gray 
dawn. 

This  was  but  one  of  a  thousand  conflicts, 
which  those  unhappy  regions  beheld.  But, 
whether  in  defeat  or  victory,  from  that  night  the 
private  and  profound  sorrows  of  Cavalier  found 
no  utterance.  The  gravity  of  premature  man- 
hood was  on  his  brow  ;  and  having  but  one  ob- 
ject for  which  to  live,  his  energies  were  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  The  unedu- 
cated son  of  a  peasant,  he  had  naturally  imbibed 
those  superstitions,  which  had  led  him  to  yield  al- 


THK    CEVEMNES.  25 

deference  to  the  claims  of  the  maniac  prophetess ; 
and  many  a  time,  in  the  dead  watches  of  the 
night,  did  he  groan  in  spirit  as  he  remembered  her 
murder ;  many  a  time  did  the  tears  gush  from 
his  eyes  in  those  solitary  hours,  as  he  recollected 
the  heroic  boy,  the  darling  of  his  heart,  whom 
he  had  seen  dashed  in  pieces,  as  it  were,  before 
his  face.  The  fortunes  of  the  fight  had  led  him 
far  from  the  dreadful  spot  before  daylight ;  and 
no  funeral  rites  had  honored  tho  object  of  such 
fond  affection ;  but  his  early  virtue,  his  precious 
courage,  and  sad  fate,  were  treasured  in  the 
bosom  of  his  brother. 

For  weeks  and  months  the  weary  contest 
went  on.  The  valor  and  cool  judgment  of 
Cavalier  had  exalted  him  to  supremacy  above 
the  other  leaders  of  the  Camisards ;  his  fame 
had  spread  far  and  wide  ;  and,  when  he  had 
succeeded  in  cutting  off  a  large  detachment  of 
the  royal  troops  near  Martinargue,  Montrevel 
was  recalled ;  and  a  general  of  no  less  reputa- 
tion than  Marshal  Villars  was  sent  against  the 
once  despised  rebels  of  the  Cevennes.  In  a  few 
months  more,  Villars  himself  came  to  the  con- 
clusion, that  the  warfare  must  be  interminable  ; 
it  was  possible  to  harass  and  distress,  but  not  to 
conquer.  So  indomitable  was  the  spirit  of  the 
enemy,  so  impregnable  the  fastnesses  of  their 
mountains,  that  all  hope  of  putting  an  end  to  the 
3 


26  THE    REBEL    OF 

war  by  force  of  arms  was  abandoned  by  this 
able  leader.  And  in  the  heart  of  Cavalier,  who 
beheld  the  incessant  sufferings  of  the  peasantry 
from  fatigue  and  famine,  there  also  arose  a  se- 
cret longing  for  the  return  of  peace  to  their  val- 
leys. Fearful  was  this  conscientious  young 
man,  however,  lest  the  voice  of  inclination 
should  drown  the  commands  of  duty  ;  he  scarce- 
ly dared  trust  his  own  judgment ;  and  it  was  not 
till  he  ascertained,  that  ten  thousand  rein-Is 
would  lay  down  their  arms  if  fitting  conditions 
should  be  offered,  that  he  consented  to  hold  an 
amicable  parley  with  the  enemy. 

An  interview  first  took  place  between  Cava- 
lier and  Lalande,  an  officer  of  high  rank  mid.  r 
Marshall  Villars.  Lalande  surveyed  the  worn 
garments  and  pale  cheeks  of  the  young  hero, 
whose  deeds  had  reached  the  ear  and  troubled 
the  mind  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  in  the  midst 
of  his  mighty  foreign  wars  ;  he  looked  upon  the 
body-guard  of  the  rebel  chief,  and  saw  there, 
too,  signs  of  poverty  and  extreme  physical  suf- 
fering ;  and  believed  that  he  understood  how  to 
deal  with  men  in  such  a  condition.  After  a  few 
words  of  courtesy,  he  drew  forth  a  large  and 
heavy  purse  of  gold,  and  extended  it  towards 
Cavalier.  The  mild  eye  of  the  youth  rested  on 
it  a  moment  with  surprise ;  he  looked  in  the  offi- 
cer's face,  as  if  unable  to  comprehend  his  mean- 


THE   CEVENNES.  27 

ing ;  then,  composedly  folding  his  arms  and  step- 
ping back,  he  shook  his  head,  with  an  expression 
of  countenance  so  cold,  resolute,  and  dignified, 
that  Lalande  blushed  at  his  own  proffer.  Glanc- 
ing at  the  poor  fellows  who  stood  behind  Cavalier, 
with  ready  address  he  intimated  that  the  sum  was 
but  intended  for  a  free  gift  to  relieve  their  dis- 
tress, and  scattered  the  glittering  coin  on  the  turf 
before  them.  Their  eyes  rested  on  it  wishfully, 
as  they  thought  of  their  half-famished  wives  and 
children  ;  but,  so  perfect  was  the  subordination 
into  which  they  had  been  brought  by  their  ex- 
traordinary chief,  that  not  a  man  stirred  hand  or 
foot,  till,  after  a  brief  conference,  Cavalier  sig- 
nified his  pleasure  that  they  should  accept  the 
donative.  That  was  not  till  he  had  made  satis- 
factory preliminary  arrangements  with  Lalande, 
and  a  final  interview  had  been  appointed  be- 
tween Lalande  and  himself. 

It  was  on  the  6th  of  May,  1704,  that  the  re- 
nowned French  marshal, — the  antagonist  of 
Marlborough,  —  descended  into  the  Garden  of 
the  Recollets,  at  St.  Cesaire,  near  Nismes,  to 
discuss  peace  and  war  with  the  son  of  a  moun- 
tain peasant  He  first  reached  the  appointed 
spot ;  a  grass-plot  surrounded  by  formal  gravel- 
walks  and  trim  hedges,  bright  with  the  verdure 
of  spring.  He  stood  musing  by  a  fountain, 
careless  of  the  songs  of  a  thousand  birds  ;  for 


28  THE    REBEL    OF 

the  interests  of  his  master  were  at  his  heart ; 
and  he  was  eager  to  terminate  a  contest,  most 
annoying  in  the  present  crisis  of  the  monarch's 
affairs.  Cavalier  approached  him  with  a  brow 
equally  perturbed  ;  for,  though  the  sufferings  of 
his  countrymen  had  made  him  resolve  on  peace, 
if  it  could  be  honorably  obtained,  yet  the  forms 
of  his  departed  friend  and  brother  had  haunted 
his  dreams  through  the  past  night.  His  own 
wrongs  swelled  in  his  bosom ;  and  he  felt,  that 
Peace,  with  her  sweetest  smiles,  could  not  bring 
back  the  murdered  to  cheer  the  loneliness  of 
his  lot.  Sad,  therefore,  were  the  tones  of  his 
voice,  and  melancholy  the  aspect  of  his  coun- 
tenance, as  the  conference  opened  between  him 
and  his  noble  adversary ;  and  Villars  looked  on 
him  with  a  deep  admiration  and  sympathy.  He 
knew,  from  common  report,  what  had  been  the 
keenest  trials  Cavalier  had  ever  experienced ; 
and  judged  rightly,  that,  as  the  season  of  the 
year  returned,  which  had  been  marked  by 
events  of  pain,  the  jocund  voices  of  spring 
could  bring  no  gayety  to  a  heart  so  full  of  bitter 
associations.  For  a  time,  he  spoke  of  the  ob- 
jects for  which  they  had  met,  but  with  a  military 
frankness,  calculated  to  place  the  uncourtierlike 
Cavalier  at  his  ease,  questioned  him  of  himself 
,and  his  career;  and  gave  just  praises  to  the 
.roops  he  had  formed  from  raw  mountaineers. 


THE    CEVENNES.  29 

At  last  the  feelings  uppermost  in  the  heart  of 
Cavalier  could  no  longer  be  suppressed,  and  he 
broke  forth :  "  My  countrymen  are  born  free  and 
fearless,  and  from  their  tenderest  years  can  de- 
fend themselves  against  oppression.  I  had  a 
brother,  General  —  " 

He  could  not  go  on,  but  Villars  did  not  wait. 
u  I  know  you  had ;  a  hero  of  fifteen ;  the  tale 
of  that  gallant  boy's  fate  has  reached  me  since 
I  came  into  these  parts.  You  might  well  be 
proud  of  him." 

Cavalier's  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears,  as 
he  repeated,  in  a  stifled  voice,  "  Proud  of  him ! 
I  prized  him  while  he  was  mine,  and,  when  he 
was  gone,  I  thought  I  had  never  prized  him 
enough,  —  noble,  loving,  beloved  Philip  ! " 

u  Were  you  satisfied,  perfectly  satisfied,  that 
he  perished  in  the  pass  of  Montluc  ?  " 

"  Alas !  he  disappeared ;  I  saw  him  pressed 
over  the  brink  of  a  precipice ;  I  knew  it  was 
not  possible  for  flesh  and  bones  to  be  dashed  on 
the  rocks  below  without  destruction." 

"  Yet,  if  you  remember,  torrents  of  rain  had 
fallen  scarce  an  hour  before ;  at  least,  so  they 
tell  me ;  and  a  deep  basin  of  water  had  been 
formed  under  the  cliff*  whence  he  fell." 

Cavalier  looked  wildly  in  the  Marshal's  face, 
but  spoke  not.  "  If,"  continued  Villars,  "  he 
should  have  escaped  death,  should  have  fallen 
3* 


30  THE    REBEL    OF 

into  the  hands  of  our  troops,  what  ransom  would 
you  pay  for  such  a  prisoner  ?  " 

"Myself,  —  my  liberty,  —  my  life  !  I  have 
naught  else ! "  cried  the  young  man. 

Villars  turned  away,  a  benevolent  smile  light- 
ing up  his  war-worn  features,  and  raised  his 
sword ;  the  party  of  soldiers,  who  were  drawn 
up  at  a  little  distance  in  a  hollow  square,  opened, 
and  there  stood  the  slender  stripling,  Philip  ;  in 
another  moment,  he  had  bounded  like  a  moun- 
tain deer  into  the  arms  of  his  astonished  brother, 
whispering,  as  he  clung  round  his  neck,  "  Will 
you  forgive  me,  Louis  ?  " 

"  He  is  yours,"  resumed  the  Marshal,  dash- 
ing the  tears  from  his  eyes;  "we  demand  no 
ransom  for  those  that  wear  no  beards,  even 
though  taken  sword  in  hand,  as  this  young  goose 
was,  ten  minutes  after  he  came  dripping  and 
dizzy  out  of  the  water.  The  swords  of  our 
dead  Frenchmen  were  scattered  too  plentifully 
about  him.  Carry  him  off,  or  I  shall  steal  him  ; 
and  teach  him  loyalty,  I  pray  you ;  for  five  years 
hence  he  will  match  us  all.  And  now  for  busi- 
ness." 

Briskly  indeed  the  business  went  on.  The 
cloud  had  vanished  from  the  brow  of  Cavalier, 
the  load  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart,  and, 
both  parties  having  the  same  object  honorably  in 
view,  a  friendly  arrangement  was  speedily  con- 


THE    CEVENNES.  31 

eluded,  in  which  the  interest  of  the  monarch  and 
of  the  long-oppressed  subject  were  alike  con- 
sulted. 

It  was  not  till  many  years  after,  that  the 
Governor  of  Jersey,  —  the  veteran  of  Alman- 
za, — the  trusted  servant  of  the  English  crown, — 
quietly  departed  this  life  of  shadows  in  the  or- 
dinary course  of  nature,  leaving  behind  a  high 
and  unblemished  reputation.  That  honored 
officer  was  Louis  Cavalier,  once  the  rebel  peas- 
ant of  the  Cevennes. 


HYMN   TO   THE   SETTING   SUN. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SUNG  BY  THE  GOTHIC 
PEASANTRY. 

BY    G.     P.     B.    JAMES. 

SLOW,  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy 

rest, 

Thy  course  of  beneficence  done  ; 
As  glorious  go  down  to  the  ocean's  warm 

breast, 

As  when  thy  bright  race  was  begun, 
For  all  thou  hast  done, 
Since  thy  rising,  O  sun  ! 
May  thou  and  thy  Maker  be  blest. 
Thou  hast  scattered  the  night  from  thy  broad 

golden  way, 
Thou  hast  given  us  thy  light  through  a  long 

happy  day, 
Thou   hast    roused    up    the   birds,    thou    hast 

wakened  the  flowers, 

To  chant  on  thy  path,  and  to  perfume  the  hours. 
Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy 

rest, 

And   rise   again,  beautiful,   blessing    and 
blest. 


HYMN    TO    THE    SETTING   SUN.  33 

Slow,  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy  rest, 

Yet  pause  but  a  moment  to  shed 
One  warm  look  of  love  on  the  earth's  dewy 

breast, 

Ere  the  starred  curtain  fall  round  thy  bed, 
And  to  promise  the  time, 
Where,  awaking  sublime, 
Thou  shalt  rush  all  refreshed  from  thy 

rest. 
Warm  hopes  drop  like  dews  from  thy  life-giving 

hand, 
Teaching  hearts  closed  in  darkness  like  flowers 

to  expand  ; 
Dreams  wake  into  joys  when  first  touched  by  thy 

light, 

As  glow  the  dim  waves  of  the  sea  at  thy  sight. 
Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy 

rest, 

And   rise   again,  beautiful,  blessing  and 
blest 

Slow,  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy 

rest, 

Prolonging  the  sweet  evening  hour ; 
Then  robe  again  soon  in  the  morn's  golden 

vest, 

To  go  forth  in  thy  beauty  and  power. 
Yet  pause  on  thy  way, 
To  the  full  height  of  day, 


34  HYMN    TO    THE    SETTING    SUN. 

For  thy  rising  and  setting  are  blest. 
When  thou  com'st  after  darkness  to  gladden  our 

eyes, 

Or  departest  in  glory,  in  glory  to  rise, 
May  hope  and  may  prayer  still  be  woke  by  thy 

rays, 
And  thy  going  be  marked  with  thanksgiving  and 

praise. 
Then  slow,  mighty  wanderer,  sink  to  thy 

rest, 

And   rise   again,   beautiful,    blessing   and 
blest. 


35 


THE   ONE-HANDED   FLUTE-PLAYER 
OF   ARQUES   IN   NORMANDY. 

I  WOUND  my  way  up  the  eminence  on  which 
the  old  towers  totter  to  decay,  and  passing  under 
the  broken  archway  which  received  the  tri- 
umphant Henry  after  his  victory,  and  then  trac- 
ing the  rugged  path  which  marks  the  grand  ap- 
proach, I  got  on  the  summit  of  the  mound  which 
forms  the  basement  of  the  vast  expanse  of 
building.  The  immense  extent  of  these  gives 
a  fine  feeling  of  human  grandeur  and  mortal 
littleness ;  and  the  course  of  reflection  is  hur- 
ried on  as  the  eye  wanders  over  the  scenery 
around.  This  may  be  described  in  one  sentence, 
as  the  resting-place  on  which  a  guilty  mind 
might  prepare  for  its  flight  to  virtue. 

While  I  stood  musing  "  in  the  open  air,  where 
the  scent  comes  and  goes  like  the  warbling  of 
music  " —  and  neither  wished  nor  wanted  other 
melody,  the  soft  sounds  of  a  flute  came  faintly 
towards  me,  breathing  a  tone  of  such  peculiar 
and  melting  expression,  as  I  thought  I  had  never 
before  heard.  Having  for  some  time  listened 
in  great  delight,  a  sudden  pause  ensued  :  —  the 
strain  changed  from  sad  to  gay,  not  abruptly, 


36  THE    ONE-HANDEC 

but  ushered  by  a  running  cadence  that  gently 
lifted  the  soul  from  its  languor,  and  thrilled 
through  every  fibre  of  fed  inn;.  It  recalled  to 
me  at  the  instant  the  fables  of  Pan,  and  every 
other  rustic  serenader,  and  I  thought  of  the  pas- 
sage in  Smith's  u  Nympholet,"  where  Amaryn- 
thus,  in  his  enthusiasm,  fancies  he  hears  the 
pipe  of  the  sylvan  deity. 

I  descended  the  hill  towards  the  villagr  at  a 
pace  lively  and  free  as  the  measure  of  the 
music  which  impelled  me.  When  1  readied 
ihe  level  ground,  and  came  into  the  straying 
t,  the  warbling  ceased.  It  seem'-;!  as 
though  enchantment  had  lured  me  to  its  favor- 
ite haunt.  'The  gothic  church,  on  my  right, 
assorted  well  with  the  architecture  of  the  houses 
around.  On  every  hand  a  portico,  a  frieze, 
ornaments  carved  in  stone,  coats  of  arms,  and 
fret-work,  stamped  the  place  with  an  air  of 
antiquity  and  nobleness,  while  groups  of  tall 
trees  formed  a  decoration  of  verdant  yet  solemn 
beauty. 

A  few  peasant  women  were  sitting  at  the 
doors  of  their  respective  habitations,  as  mis- 
placed, I  thought,  as  beggars  in  the  porch  of  a 
palace  ;  while  half-a-dozen  children  gambolled 
on  the  grass  plot  in  the  middle  of  the  open  place. 
I  sought  in  vain  among  these  objects  to  discover 
the  musician ;  and,  not  willing  to  disturb  my 


FLUTE-PLAYER.  37 

pleased  sensations  by  common-place  question- 
ings, I  wandered  about,  looking,  in  a  sort  of 
semi-romantic  mood,  at  every  antiquated  case- 
ment. Fronting  the  church,  and  almost  close 
to  its  western  side,  an  arched  entrance  caught 
my  particular  attention,  from  its  old  yet  perfect 
workmanship,  and  I  stopped  to  examine  it, 
throwing  occasional  glances  through  the  trellis- 
work  in  the  middle  of  the  gate,  which  gave  a 
view  of  a  court-yard  and  house  within.  Part  of 
the  space  in  front  was  arranged  in  squares  of 
garden,  and  a  venerable  old  man  was  watering 
some  flowers :  a  nice  young  woman  stood 
beside  him,  with  a  child  in  her  arms ;  two 
others  were  playing  near  him  :  and  close  at 
hand  was  a  man,  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
who  seemed  to  contemplate  the  group  with  a 
complacent  smil<-.  His  figure  was  in  part  con- 
cealed from  me,  but  he  observed  me,  and  im- 
mediately left  the  others,  and  walked  down  the 
gravel  path  to  accost  me.  I  read  his  intention 
in  his  looks,  and  stood  still. 

As  he  advanced  from  his  concealed  position, 
I  saw  that  his  left  leg  was  a  wooden  one  —  his 
right  was  the  perfect  model  of  Apollonic  grace. 
His  left  arm  was  wanting.  He  was  bare- 
headed, and  his  curled  brown  hair  showed  a 
forehead  that  Spurzheim  would  have  almost 
worshipped.  His  features  were  all  of  manly 
4 


38  THE    HNK-HANDED 

beauty.  His  musuiehios,  military  jacket,  and 
light  pantaloons  with  red  edging,  told  that  he 
had  not  been  "  curtailed  of  man's  fair  propor- 
tions" by  any  vulgar  accident  of  life  ;  and  the 
-  of  honor  suspended  to  his  button-hole, 
finished  the  brief  abstract  of  his  history. 

A  short  interlocution,  consisting  of  apology 
on  my  part  and  invitation  on  his,  ended  in  my 
accompanying  him  towards  the  house  ;  and  as 
I  shii  ,  his  l.-t't  to  his  right  side  to  oll'rr 

one  of   my  arms  to  his  only   one,  1  saw  a  smile 
on    the    e<  pivtty    Wife,    and 

limli'  d.  ^e 

entered  the  hall,  a  large  bl«-ali  ant« -room,  \\  i:h 

or  lour  old    portraits   mouldering   on   the 

i  other  by  a  cobweb  tapestry, 

and    una«  d    by    any    othi-r    ornament. 

\\  e  then  pa>scd  to  the  right  into  a  spacious 
chamber,  which  was  once,  no  doubt,  the  gor- 
geously decorated  withdrawing-room  of  some 
proudly-titled  occupier.  The  nobility  of  its 
nt  tenant  is  of  a  different  kind,  and  its 
furniture  confined  to  two  or  three  tables,  twice" 
.any  chairs,  a  corner  cupboard,  and  a  secre- 
taire. A  Spanish  guitar  was  suspended  to  a 
hook  over  the  gothic  mantel-piece  ;  a  fiddle  lay 
on  the  table  ;  and  fixed  to  the  edge  of  the  other 
was  a  sort  of  wooden  vice,  into  which  was 


FLUTE-PLAYER.  39 

screwed  a  flute  of  concert  size,  with  three  finger 
holes  and  eleven  brass  keys,  but  of  a  construc- 
tion sufficient  to  puzzle  Monzani. 

It  is  useless  to  make  a  mystery  of  what  the 
reader  has  already  divined  :  my  one-legged, 
one-armed  host  was  the  owner  of  this  compli- 
cated machine,  and  the  performer  on  it,  whose 
wonderful  tone  and  execution  had  caused  me  so 
much  pleasure.  But  what  will  be  said  when  I 
tell  the  astonished  and  perhaps  incredulous 
public,  that  "  his  good  right  hand  "  was  the  sole 
and  simple  one  that  bored  and  polished  the 
wood,  turned  the  keys  and  the  ivory  which 
formed  the  joints,  and  accomplished  the  entire 
arrangement  of  this  instrument ! 

Being  but  an  indifferent  musician  and  worse 
mechanic,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the 
peculiarities  of  the  music,  or  tho  arrangement 
of  the  flute,  as  the  maker  and  performer  ran 
over,  with  his  four  miraculous  fingers,  some  of 
the  most  difficult  solos  in  Vernes  and  Berlinger's 
compositions  which  lay  on  the  table  before  him. 

This  extraordinary  man  is  a  half-pay  colonel 
in  the  French  service,  though  a  German  l.y 
birth.  His  limbs  received  their  summary  am- 
putation by  two  quick-sent  cannon  balls  at  the 
battle  of  Dccrden  (I  believe) :  since  he  was 
disabled  he  has  lived  in  his  present  retirement, 
**  passing  rich  on  thirty  pounds  a  year,"  and 


40  THE    ONE-HANDED 

happy  for  him  that  nature  endowed  him  with  a 
tasteful  anil  mechanical  mind,  —  rare  combina- 
tions! —  while  art  furnished  him  with  knowledge 
of  music,  without  which  his  mind  would  have 
heen  a  burden. 

With  regard  to  his  flute-playing,  lie  actually 
brought  tears  into  my  eyes  by  his  touching 
manner. 

It  needs  not  to  be  told  he  was  an  enthusiast 
in  music,  and  when  he  believed  himself  thus 
deprived  of  the  last  enjoyment  of  his  life,  he 
was  almost  distracted.  In  tin-  feverish  slrrp 
snatched  at  intervals  from  suilering,  he 
constantly  to  dream  that  he  was  listening  to 
delicious  concerts,  in  which  he  was,  as  he  was 
wont,  a  principal  performer.  Strains  of  more 
than  earthly  music  seemed  sometimes  floating 
round  him,  and  his  own  flute  was  ever  the 
leading  instrument. 

Frequently,  at  moments  of  greatest  delight, 
some  of  the  inexplicable  machinery  of  dreams 
went  wrong.  One  of  the  sylphs,  the  lovely 
imaginings  of  Baxter's  fanciful  theory,  had 
snapped  the  chord  that  strung  his  visioned  joys. 
He  awoke  in  ecstacy,the  tones  vibrated,  too,  for 
a  while  upon  his  brain ;  but,  recalled  to  sensa- 
tion by  a  union  of  bodily  pain  and  mental 
anguish,  his  enefficient  stump  gave  the  lie  direct 
to  all  his  dreams  of  paradise,  and  the  gallant 


FLUTE-PLAYER.  41 

and  mutilated  soldier  wept  like  an  infant  for 
whole  hours. 

He  might  make  a  fortune,  I  think,  if  he 
would  visit  England,  and  appear  as  a  public 
performer;  but  his  pride  forbids  this,  and  he 
remain^  at  Arques  to  show  to  any  vial'tor  un- 
usual proofs  of  talent,  ingenuity,  ind  philosophy ' 


THE   POET'S    PEN. 

PROM       THE      GREEK      OF     MENECKATES. 

I  WAS  a  useless  reed  ;  no  cluster  hung 

My  brow  with  purple  grapes ;  no  blossom  flung 

The  coronet  of  crimson  on  my  stem  ; 

No  apple  blushed  upon  me,  nor  (the  gem 

Of  flowers)  the  violet  strewed  the  yellow  heath 

Around  my  feet ;  nor  jessairine's  sweet  wreath 

Robed  me  in  silver :  day  and  night  I  pined 

On  the  lone  moor,  and  shivered  in  the  \vinu. 

At  length  a  poet  found  me.     From  my  side 

lie  smoothed  the  pale  and  withered  leaves,  and 

dyed 

My  lips  in  HELICO^T.     From  that  high  hour, 
I  SPOKE  !  my  words  were  flame  and  living  power! 
All  the  wide  wonders  of  the  earth  were  mine  ; 
Far  as  the  surges  roll,  or  sunbeam's  shine ; 
Deep  as  earth's  bosom  hides  the  emerald ; 
High    as    the    hills    with    thunder-clouds    are 

palled ; 

And  there  was  sweetness  round  me,  that  the  dew 
Had  never  wet  so  sweet  on  violets  blue. 
To  me  the  mighty  sceptre  was  a  wand ; 
The  roar  of  nations  pealed  at  my  command. 


PEN.  4J 

To  mo  the  dungeon,  sword,  and  scourge  were 

vain, 

I  smote  the  smiter,  and  I  broke  the  chain ; 
Or,  towering  o'er  them  all,  without  a  plume 
I  pierced  the  purple  air,  the  tempest's  gloom, 
Till  blazed  th'  Olympian  glories  on  my  eye, 
Stars,  temples,  thrones,  and  gods  —  infinity. 


41 

SONNET. 

EVENING  —  THE      GLEANER. 

THE  shadows  stalk  along  the  western  verge ; 

The  orient  sleeps,  already  wrapped  in  night ; 

The  fitful  fire-fly  trims  his  tiny  light, 

•.lie  owl  awaki-s  her  solemn  dirge. 

The  dusky  night-hawk  swoops  from  sky  to  sky ; 

The  whip-poor-will  attunes  his  husky  note ; 

O'er  the  still  pool  contending  circles  float, 

As  whirling  round  the  hcctle-boatmcn  ply. 

Closed  are  the  labors  of  the  toil-worn  day ; 

The  evening  Sabbath  reigns  o'er  all  the  scene ; 

With  dewy  feet  across  the  meadow  green, 

The  gentle  gleaner  homeward  wends  her  way. 
Peace  to  her  guileless  heart  and  unpretending 

hearth ! 

Peace  seeks  the  humble  home  —  but  shuns  the 
great  of  earth ! 


THIS   GIL  KAN  Eli 


45 


A   LAWYER'S    CLERK'S    TALE. 

WITH  one  of  my  schoolfellows,  whose  father 
was  clerk  to  an  eminent  barrister,  I  paid  occa- 
sional visits  to  the  courts  in  Westminster  Hall. 
I  was  with  him,  also,  one  day  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  of  Lords  during  the  arguing  of  an  ap- 
peal case.  We  were  not  unfrequently,  likewise, 
in  the  Old  Bailey  during  the  sessions.  From 
thenceforward  my  imagination  was  filled  with 
nothing  but  a  vision  of  wigs  and  gowns.  Many 
a  time  have  I  astounded  an  Old  Bailey  jury, 
badgered  a  witness  in  the  Common  Pleas,  and 
even  broken  jokes  with  "  my  lords  "  the  judges. 
I  have  been  hand  and  glove  with  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor himself,  and  (for  my  imagination  exer- 
cised its  ubiquitous  privilege,  and  flew  as  it 
pleased  between  common  law  and  equity),  I 
have  leaned  familiarly  over  the  bar  of  the  House 
of  Lords,  addressing  the  woolsack  and  empty 
benches  on  some  intricate  case  on  which  I  had 
been  retained  with  a  fee  of  a  thousand  guineas. 

My  decision  was  made  —  my  profession  was 
chosen  —  I  should  be  a  lawyer.  My  father,  a 
plain,  hard-working  man,  learned  the  decision 
with  a  kind  of  contemptuous  carelessness,  but 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

finding  me  persist,  it  made  him  somewhat  un- 
JT.     Once  on  a  time,  he  said,  he  had  done  a 
little    business   with   lawyers   himself,   and    had 
i  tin-in  a  precious  pack  of  scoundrels.     Ilr 
V  cordially,  and  he  had   a  reason 
f«»r  it.      Thr  reason  was  this.      He   had   fancied 
that  he  had  a  claim  to  a  property  which  wanted 
lie  hud  spent  some  trifle  of  money 
in  trying  to  establish  his  claim.     But   other  and 
much  nearer  claimants  than  he  had  started    up, 
and  from  that  time  he  never  could  forgive  the 
\Vr  seldom  heard  the  story  when  he 
r;     but    when    lie    came    home    tipsy 
(which,  to  do  him  justice,  was  not  frequently), 
sure  to  get  the  whole  history  and  mys- 
tery of  this  property,  and  perhaps  it  was  but  the 
second  edition  for  that  evening,  if  he  had  got 
auditors  in   the    parlor   of  the   Rose   and 
Crown.     My  mother  used  to  call  him  an  old 
fool,  and  desire  him  to  go  to  bed,  which  he 
would  do  very  good-humoredly,  but  as  he  sank 
to  sleep  he  still  kept  muttering  about  how  the 

rs  had  cheated  him  out  of  his  property. 
My  father  resisted  my  inclination  to  be  a  law- 
he  would  far  rather,  he  said,  see  me  at 
some    honest,   trade.      With    my  mother  I  had 
more  success ;  I  told  her  I  had  a  turn  and  taste 
for  the  law,  and  she  believed    that   I   had ;    I 
affirmed  that  I  would  rise  in  the  law,  and  sho 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE.  47 

believed  that  I  would.  I  at  last  caught  my  father's 
consent  by  a  manoeuvre  which  had  some  cunning 
in  it  and  some  real  enthusiasm.  He  was  harp- 
ing one  evening  on  the  old  string  of  his  property, 
when  I  exclaimed  that  if  /  were  but  a  barrister, 
I  would  drag  the  unlawful  holders  of  the  property 
through  every  court  in  the  kingdom,  and  com- 
pel them  to  disgorge  —  perhaps  if  I  were  a 
barrister,  father  might  have  the  property  to  keep 
him  in  his  old  age.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  laying  it  on  the  table,  he  vowed  that  I  slwuld 
be  a  lawyer. 

Hut  how  to  become  a  lawyer  was  now  the 
consideration.  At  last  my  mother  bethought 
her  of  a  very  distant  relation  who  was  a  clerk  in 
an  attorney's  office  —  the  result  of  her  applica- 
tion to  him  was,  that  I  was  taken  into  the  office, 
and  the  attorney  promised  that  if  I  proved  as 
sharp  and  apt  as  I  looked,  he  would  take  care 
of  nu  . 

About  a  year  afterwards  a  young  barrister, 
who  had  just  taken  possession  of  his  chambers, 
and  was  beginning  to  get  some  business,  pro- 
posed to  me  that  I  should  become  his  clerk.  .  1 
jumped  at  the  proposal.  The  attorney,  however, 
was  somewhat  offended  by  my  leaving  him,  and 
spoke  disparagingly  of  my  ability.  There  was 
no  engagement,  however,  and  the  barrister  had 


4$  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALK. 

conceived  a  fancy  for  me.  Therefore  did  I 
become  the  barrister's  clerk. 

Now  was  I  happy  !     I  had  surmounted  one 
obstacle  ;  and  if  I  could  but  accomplish  the  task 
•fing  my  way  through  an  Inn  of  Court,  1 
might  become  a  barrister,  and  have,  one  day,  a 
t,  and  chambers  to  myself.      My  employer 
well   connected,  (what  can  a   professional 
man  do  in  London  without  a  good  connexion?) 
and  ••  was  one  of  thos,  who 

in  common  life  are  known  as  lucky  individuals, 
•hing  he  took  in  hand  BOOCOeded 
with  him.     There  was  a  buoyancy  about  him, 
...incd  with  almost  perfect   suavity  of  man- 
ner, and  a   large   portion  of  cleverness,   which 
in  swimmingly.     He  never  knew  what 
it  \\;  >r  doubt  the  possibility  of  his  suc- 

cess in  life,  and  therefore  he  was  equally  free 
from  the  hesitation  of  a  timid  nature,  and  the 
bull}  ardness  of  a  vulgar  one.  The 

word  gentleman  sums  up  his  character.  He 
knew  his  own  position,  kept  it,  never  went  under 
it  or  over  it,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  was 
to  allow  to  others  full  deference  and  ac- 
knowledgment, without  the  fear  that  lie  was 
thereby  detracting  from  himself.  He  was,  in- 
deed, a  kind-hearted,  open,  candid  gentleman  ! 

Business  flowed   in  upon  him.     No  Jew  in 
disposition,  he  raised  my  salary  as  he  filled  my 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE.  49 

time  with  work  —  as  his  fees  increased,  so  did 
mine,  By  the  time  I  had  shot  up  from  the  shape 
and  thoughts  of  a  mere  youth  into  the  look  and 
consequence  of  a  young  man,  I  was  in  the  re- 
ceipt of  an  income  of  about  200Z.  yearly,  and 
it  promised  to  increase  still  more.  My  employer 
would  undoubtedly  rise  in  his  profession,  and  I 
would  rise  with  him.  He  might  become  attorney- 
general — he  might  be  made  a  judge!  My 
prospects  were  far  better  than  that  of  many  a 
briefless  barrister ;  I  scorned  to  desert  my  em- 
ployer, and  abandoned  all  thoughts  of  anything 
but  being  his  clerk  for  life.  "  Well,  Bill,"  said 
my  father,  one  day,  as  I  handed  him  some 
money  to  pay  up  arrears  of  rent  —  there  was  a 
tear  in  his  glistening  eye  —  "I  was  wrong,  and 
you  was  right,  when  you  wanted  to  be  a  law- 
yer ! "  My  mother  would  sit  and  look  at  me, 
while  gratification  and  pride  lighted  up  her  face 
—  or  she  would  smile  as  my  sister  pulled  the 
ring  off  my  little  finger,  and  placed  it  on  her 
own,  or  my  younger  brother  examined  the  tex- 
ture of  the  silver  watch-guard,  that,  like  an 
alderman's  chain,  decorated  my  person.  I  was 
the  great  man  of  the  family,  and  grew  great  in 
my  own  estimation.  A  bed-room  was  carefully 
assigned  me  —  my  father  brushed  my  boots  and 
shoes,  nor  would  he  allow  any  one  else  to  do  it. 
One  night,  I  took  him  to  tne  gallery  of  the 
5 


50  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

House  of  Commons.  Though  fond  of  a  bit  of 
political  discussion,  especially  in  his  favorite  par- 
lor at  the  Rose  and  Crown,  his  attention  was 
riveted,  not  on  the  speaker  or  his  wig,  or  tin1 
the  table  with  their  wigs,  or  the  mace, 
or  the  members,  but  on  the  sergeant-at-arms, 
and  the  messengers  of  the  House.  He  was  get- 
ting tired,  he  said,  of  hard  work,  and  he  "  would 
just  like  to  be  one  of  them  chaps,"  to  sit  and 
hear  the  speeches,  and  have  nothing  to  do  but 
order  the  folks  in  the  strangers'  gallery  to  sit 
down  and  be  quiet.  I  promised  to  use  all  jmj 
influence  to  get  him  put  on  the  list,  and  no  doubt 

>uld  be  appointed  in  due  course  ! 
Time  wore  on;  my  money  was  as  plentiful, 
or  more  so,  as  ever ;  and  I  became,  not  a  dissi- 
pated, but  a  gay,  thoughtless  young  fellow.  1 
ventured,  now  and  then,  into  the  pit  at  the  opera, 
occasionally  treated  my  sisters  (my  mother 
would  never  go)  to  a  box  at  the  play,  and  when 
"  master  and  I "  went  on  circuit,  I  drank  my 
wine  "  like  a  gentleman."  About  this  time,  I 
smitten  by  the  charms  of  a  pretty,  affec- 
tionate girl,  (she  is,  thank  goodness,  if  not  as 
pretty,  at  least  as  affectionate  as  she  ever  was,) 
and — we  married!  Who  blames  me?  My 
emp1  -  glad  to  hear  of  my  marriage. 

He  said  that  he  would  repose  greater  confidence 
in  me  than  ever,  that  he  felt  he  had  a  greater 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE.  51 

hold  upon  me  than  he  had  before,  that,  in  fact, 
I  had  "  given  hostages  to  fortune."  I  told  all 
this  to  my  wife,  and  though  she  did  not  exactly 
understand  what  giving  hostages  to  fortune 
meant,  she  thought  it  must  mean  something  very 
complimentary,  considered  my  employer  a  very 
fine  gentleman,  wondered  he  did  not  take  a  wife 
himself,  but  concluded  he  had  not  yet  met  with 
the  one  that  was  destined  for  him. 

I  look  back  to  the  first  two  years  of  my  mar- 
ried life  as  one  does  to  a  pleasant  vision,  which 
seems  to  float  indistinctly  in  the  memory.  They 
were  spent  in  one  round  of  thoughtless  happi- 
ness. We  never  dreamed  of  saving  any  money, 
as  we  might  have  done.  My  absences  on  circuit 
were  at  first  a  source  of  annoyance,  but  she  be- 
came used  to  them,  and  they  were  amply  made 
up  by  our  "  junkettings  "  and  "  goings-on  "  dur- 
ing the  "  long  vocation."  My  wife  is  an  excel- 
lent creature  ;  but  all  (say,  if  not  a//,  the  greater 
portion)  of  young  London  folks  are  fond  of 
"  seeing  some  life  " — ay,  and  many  of  the  older 
folks,  too.  So  we  ran  to  Vauxhall,  and  Ast- 
ley's,  visited  the  theatres,  had  supper  parties, 
and  sometimes  a  dinner  party,  and  took  excur- 
sions into  the  country.  A  couple  of  children 
was  but  a  trifling  check  upon  the  buoyancy  of 
our  out-of-door  habits.  We  kept,  of  course,  a 
servant ;  and  "  mother  "  came  of  an  evening, 


:VJ  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

to  take  care  of  the  young  ones  when  we  went 
out. 

Mv  employer  suddenly  sickened  and   died, 
cut  him  oif  in  the  flower  of  his 
manhood  —  at    the   very   time   when    lie    could 
-nil,  "it    is    well    with    me,   and    it    is  well 
with  the  world  !  "     I  was  too  much  stunned  to 
the   sorrow  I  have  since  felt.     Besides,  his 
relations  called  on  me  to  wind  up  his  affairs.     1 
K>;  and,  in  a  few  months,  the  chambers 
where  I  had  s;  ••  pleasant 

hours,  were  taken  possession  of  by  another  bar- 
rister and  another  clerk.  Truly,  man  dies,  but 
society  li\  '  ()t':i  1IUIU  m  t'ie  prime 

of  life,  and  in  active  business,  is  just  as  if  one 
threw  a  stone  into  the  ocean  :  it  caus< 
ration  and  a  swell   in  the  neighborhood  for  a 
moment,  and  then  the  surface  is  the  same  as 

I   couldvhave   got   a   situation    immediately 

afterwards.     But  the  salary  offered  was  very 

small ;  and  I  had  received  fifty  pounds  from  my 

late   employer's   relations,  as  an  acknowledg- 

t  of  my  services.     So,  scorning  to  "  shelf" 

If,  as  I  called  it,  I  resolved  to  wait  till 

something  worth  my  acceptance  presented  itself. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  but  I  spent  three  or 

four   busy  months  idling  about.     I  \vaited  on 

this  person    and   that    person ;    spoke   of   my 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE.  '  53 

capalilities  and  my  wants;  tried  for  two  or 
three  situations,  and  began  to  feel  what  I  had 
never  properly  felt  before,  that  the  fraternity  I 
belong  to,  like  that  of  our  employers,  is  a  nu- 
merous one  —  their  name  is  Legion,  for  they 
are  many. 

One  day,  in  the  street,  I  met  a  barrister  who 
had  been  one  of  the  personal  friends  of  my 
late  employer.  "Oh,  Turner,"  he  said,  "I 
wanted  to  see  you — come  with  me."  I  went 
with  him  to  the  chambers  of  a  well-known  con- 
veyancer. After  being  duly  introduced,  I  was 
desired  to  wait,  and  the  kind  barrister,  doubt- 
less thinking  he  had  effectually  served  me,  went 
away.  Some  time  afterwards,  I  was  called  into 
the  sanctum.  "  Well,  Mr.  Turner  —  Turner  is, 
I  think,  your  name,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  he,  in  a 
voice  that  made  me  think  him  as  musty  and 
precise  as  an  old  title-deed.  I  bowed.  "  With 
whom  did  you  say  you  were  last,  Mr.  Turner  ? " 
I  mentioned  the  name.  "  Ah  !  poor  fellow,  he 
died  as  he  was  getting  into  a  very  good  business 
—  did  he  not,  Mr.  Turner?"  I  replied,  of 
course,  in  the  affirmative.  "  But  you  were  with 
a  conveyancer  before  you  were  with  him,  were 
you  not,  Mr.  Turner  ? "  I  said,  No  —  but  that 
I  was  sure  I  would  soon  get  into  the  routine  of 
the  business.  "  Ah !  well,  I  am  busy  now,  Mr, 
5* 


54  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

Turner,  but  leave  me  your  address,  and  I  will 
send  for  you  when  I  want  you."  I  pulled  out 
my  card,  which  the  conveyancer  told  me  to  put 
down  on  the  table.  Next  day  the  situation  was 
filled  up,  but  not  by  me. 

I  next  applied  for  the  head  clerkship  in  an 
attorney's  office,  but  the  attorney  wanted  an 
experienced  man,  and  I  was  amongst  the  rejected 
candidates.  I  heard  one  night  of  a  vacancy  in 
a  barrister's  clerkship,  and  was  waiting  at  the 
chambers  next  morning  before  the  barrister  ap- 
peared himself,  amongst  half-a-dozen  young 
men,  who  mutually  guessed  each  other's  pur- 
pose—  but  the  barrister  had  been  suited  tiiv. 
night  before.  The  question  began  to  occur  to 
—  what  can  I  do?  s  I,  the  father 

of  a  family,  a  grown  member  of  an  overstocked 
profession,  and  all  I  can  really  do  to  earn  my 
family's  subsistence,  is  the  copying  of  legal 
documents  —  an  art  that  a  boy  of  fourteen  can 
perform  as  well  as  a  man  of  forty.  Yet,  for- 
sooth !  my  shabby  gentility  must  be  kept  up  — 
dig  I  cannot,  and  to  beg  I  am  ashamed.  In  the 
first  impulse  of  the  moment,  I  resolved  to  sell 
off  all  that  I  had,  and  emigrate  to  the  Back- 
woods of  Canada.  And  pray,  said  I  to  myself, 
as  I  cooled  a  little,  what  can  you  do  in  the  Back- 
woods of  Canada  ?  You  can  neither  handle 
the  axe,  nor  the  saw,  nor  the  hammer ;  hardly 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE.  55 

know  how  to  plant  a  cabbage  —  and  can  barely 
tell  the  difference  between  wheat  and  oats! 

My  father  had  been  ailing,  and  was  at  last 
called  away,  and  I,  heretofore  the  great  man  of 
the  family,  could  do  nothing  towards  laying  him 
in  his  quiet  grave.  A  brother,  by  trade  a  black- 
smith, one  whom  I  had  ridiculed  for  the  awk- 
ward homeliness  of  his  manners,  and  whom  I 
have  more  than  once  avoided  in  the  street,  de- 
frayed the  expenses  of  the  funeral,  and,  being 
unmarried,  charged  himself  with  the  mainte- 
nance of  my  mother.  Yes,  the  tables  were 
turned.  Yet  even  amid  the  bitterness  of  heart 
which  everything  was  calculated  to  give  me,  I 
have  seen  me  turn  out  on  a  solitary  walk,  and 
dreaming  about  a  fortune  being  left  me  by  some 
unlooked-for  and  mysterious  means  ;  and  how, 
when  I  got  it,  I  would  astonish,  dazzle,  or  at 
least  command  the  respect  of  some  who  were 
looking  coldly  or  contemptuously  on  me.  And 
at  this  time  another  baby  was  born  to  me,  and 
my  awkward  brother  called,  in  his  greasy  jacket, 
and  put  a  sovereign  into  its  little  hand  —  we  had 
only  a  few  coppers,  not  amounting  to  a  sixpence, 
in  the  house,  before  we  received  the  welcome 
gold  coin. 

My  wife  suggested  that  I  should  try  something 
out  of  the  law,  if  I  could  not  get  something  to 
do  in  it.  What  can  I  do  out  of  the  law,  I  asked. 


56  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

"  Bless  my  heart ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  more 
vehemence  than  she  was  in  the  hahit  of  using, 
"  London  is  a  large  place  ! "  Some  further 
conversation  followed ;  we  grew  warm ;  she 
accused  me  of  being  a  useless,  incapable  fellow, 
who,  when  one  mode  of  subsistence  failed,  could 
not  turn  himself  with  facility  to  another.  I  re- 
torted, that  she  was  idle,  and  might  do  something 
herself  towards  the  maintenance  of  the  family, 
(what  a  cruel  insult  towards  a  woman  with  two 
young  children  and  a  baby,  and  she,  too,  whom 
I  had  taught  never  to  do  anything  but  attend  to 
the  children  !)  —  high  words  followed,  I  stormed, 
she  wept  and  upbraided,  we  mutually  wished  we 
had  never  been  married,  and  at  last,  in  a  furious 
passion,  I  rushed  out  of  the  house. 

I  had  parted  with  the  silver  chain,  as  well  as 
some  other  ornaments  previously,  but  the  ring 
kept  its  place  on  my  little  finger.  This  I  now 
took  off,  sold  for  a  few  shillings,  and  went  and 
got  drunk,  like  a  mean-spirited  hound,  with  the 
money.  Staggering  about  the  streets,  and 
covered  with  mud  from  a  fall,  I  was  met  by  the 
kind  barrister,  who  had  not  lost  his  interest  in 
me,  and  who,  but  for  the  circumstance  of  his 
having  an  excellent  clerk,  would  have  taken 
me.  He  was  accompanied  by  another  barris- 
ter, who  had  just  discharged  his  clerk  for 
drunkenness  and  embezzlement,  and  the  empty 


A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE.  57 


place  had  been  reserved  for  me  —  it  was  a  very 
good  one.  They  both  knew  me,  both  spoke  to 
me,  and  I  answered  them  with  a  hiccoughing 
bravado,  which,  as  I  learned  next  morning,  un- 
der a  head-ache  and  a  heart-ache,  lost  me  the 
situation. 

The  next  night  was  one  of  the  dreariest  I 
ever  spent  in  my  life.  I  slipped  out  while  my 
wife  was  asleep,  and  began  to  ramble  about  the 
streets,  to  cool  the  fever  of  body  and  mind. 
"  London  is  indeed  a  large  place,"  thought  I. 
There  are  hundreds  in  it,  ay,  thousands,  who,  if 
they  knew  my  condition,  would  pour  a  suf- 
ficiency for  the  present  distress  into  the  lap  of 
my  family  —  yet  a  bold,  bad,  begging-letter 
imposter,  by  working  on  the  feelings  of  the 
charitable,  can  sometimes  gather  pounds  while 
I  am  destitute  of  pence.  And  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  situations,  requiring  no  greater  ability 
than  what  I  possess,  which  supply  what  I  would 
term  affluence  to  their  possessors,  while  I  am 
wandering  about  like  a  vagabond,  no  man  offer- 
ing me  aught  to  do.  But  the  previous  night's 
adventure  came  back  to  my  recollection,  and  1 
knew  I  was  solacing  myself  with  a  lie.  It  was 
a  bitter  night  of  murmuring,  repining,  self- 
accusation,  and  reproach  of  the  arrangements 
of  Providence.  1  forgot  how  much  of  my 
present  condition  was  owing  to  my  own  wilful 


58  A  LAWYKK'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

misspending  Of  the  time  of  my  youth,  and  the 
money  acquired  in  a  comfortable  situation. 

During  that  night's  ramble,  I  saw  two  or  three 
destitute  creatures,  men  and  boys,  wandering 
•.reels  like  myself,  and  a  young  lad,  who  was 
sitting  huddled  up  on  the  steps  of  a  door,  told 
me  his  story,  which,  if  it  was  not  true,  was  told 
in  a  very  truth-like  way.  It  was  a  pitiable  story 
of  destitution,  and  made  me  asliamed  of  my 
want  of  spirit.  There  was  a  penny  in  my 
pocket,  remaining  from  my  previous  night's 
debauch;  I  gave  it  to  him  with  hearty  goodwill, 
and  returning  home,  found  my  wife  up,  and 
Ing  at  the  alarming  thought  of  my  having 
abandoned  her,  but  determined,  as  she  said  with 
great  spirit,  to  "  scrub  her  nails  off"  to  earn  a 
subsistence  for  herself  and  the  children. 

I  now  thought  of  trying  for  a  situation  in  the 
Post  Office.  Accordingly,  I  set  to  work  —  got 
up  a  memorial,  and  had  it  signed  by  a  number 
who  knew  me,  and  by  a  number  who  did  not  — 
and  sent  letters  along  with  it  to  the  Postmaster- 
General  and  the  Secretary.  My  hopes  rose 
high  about  the  success  of  this  scheme,  for  the 
letters  were  nicely  written,  nicely  folded,  and 
nicely  sealed.  I  allowed  at  least  ten  days  for 
an  answer,  and  did  not  become  impatient  till 
the  third  week.  Then  I  began  to  sit  each  morn- 
ing at  the  window,  watching  the  postman,  and 


59 

biting  my  nails  as  he  passed.  The  oldness  of 
the  maxim  has  not  abated  one  jot  of  its  truth, 
that,  "  hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick." 
The  third  week  passed,  and  the  fourth,  and  no 
answer  came.  In  the  fifth  week,  unable  to 
bear  the  agony  of  suspense,  I  sent  a  note,  en- 
treating an  answer,  and  gently  hinting  that  my 
application  might  have  been  overlooked  in  the 
hurry  of  business.  A  few  days  afterwards  I 
got  an  answer,  and  broke  the  official  seal  with 
a  trembling  hand  and  a  beating  heart.  The  in- 
closure  was  a  note,  intimating,  in  dry,  but  civil 
terms,  that  my  application  had  been  laid  before 
the  Postmaster-General,  but  that  his  list  was  so 
full  as  to  prevent  all  possibility  of  any  hope  of 
employment  being  held  out  to  me. 

Next  day  I  got,  by  what  appeared  almost  a 
mere  chance,  the  situation  of  clerk  to  a  barris- 
ter, with  a  salary  of  50/.  a  year.  I  had  been 
offered  the  same  sum,  with  a  chance  of  picking 
up  some  fees,  immediately  after  my  former  em- 
ployer died,  but  I  was  too  saucy  at  that  time  to 
take  it.  Now,  however,  the  tone  of  my  spirit 
was  lowered  a  little.  My  new  employer  had> 
scarcely  any  business,  and  but  a  small  chance 
of  augmenting  it — for  though  not  lacking  ability, 
he  wanted  the  "turn" — the  manner,  or  what 
you  choose  to  call  it,  which  helps  a  man  along 
in  the  -crowded  walks  ^of  the  law.  But  I  had 


60  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALE. 

not  been  long  with  him,  when  lie  negan  to  throw 
out   hints   about    his   prospects,  and    his   con- 
He  was  very  we'll  connected,  and  was 
industriously  grubbing  about  for  the  roots  of  an 
tl  appointment.     He  distinctly  gave  me  to 
understand  that  he  should  provide  for  me  as  soon 
as  he  was  provided  for  himself.     I  dare  say  he 
would  have  fulfilled  his  promise,  //"nothing  had 
intervened.       1    \\  able    to    him;    and 

though  a  consi.  mount  of  pride  still  sub- 

sisted in  my  heart,  I  brought  myseii'  to  act  as  a 
valet,  as  well  as  a  clerk,  to  a  man  who  1  could 
not  but  see  was  proud,  poor,  m-  an.  and  ungen- 
erous. After  two  years'  service  with  him,  lie 
got  an  appointment  in  one  of  the  colonies,  and 
having  one  or  two  relations  to  provide  for,  I 
could  not  be  considered  in  his  u  arrangement*.'1 
iad  not  the  courage  or  the  honesty  to  tell  me 
the  real  cause,  but  said  that  my  family  was  the 
obstacle  in  the 

1  now  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  "  cut "  the 
and  wou'd  have  given  all  I  ever  had  in  the 
tvorld  to  any  man  who  would  have  endowed  me 
»vith  a  faculty  of  earning  my  family's  subistence 
different  from  that  of  copying  a  legal  document, 
and  making  a  flourish  at  the  bottom  of  the  page. 
A  little  shop  was  to  be  let  in  my  neighborhood  — 
a  kind  of  compound  shop,  in  which  the  goods 
sold  came  under  the  class  of  huckster  and 


6i 

green-grocer.  I  knew  nothing  about  buying 
and  selling :  but  better  late  than  never,  thought 
I,  and  I  resolved  to  make  the  experiment.  The 
price  of  fixtures  and  good-will  was  only  thirty 
pounds,  but  where  was  I  to  get  thirty  pounds  ? 
My  worthy  blacksmith  brother  came  to  my  aid. 
He  lent  me  a  few  pounds  he  had  saved,  and  he 
borrowed  a  few  more  ;  my  old  friend  the  barris- 
ter, who  had  long  before  become  reconciled  to 
me,  and  who  had  learned  that  I  was  not  an 
habitual  drunkard,  presented  me  with  ten 
pounds ;  and  one  way  and  another  I  raised  the 
thirty  pounds,  though  with  a  desperate  struggle. 
So  I  entered  on  the  possession  of  my  little  shop ; 
and  it  required  a  good  laughing  face  to  hide  the 
scantiness  of  the  stock,  and  the  awkwardness  of 
my  motions.  My  wife,  indeed,  has  served  me 
excellently  well ;  only  for  her  handy  cleverness 
the  shop  would  have  been  shut  up  long  ago. 
Wr  are  doing  pretty  well  in  it,  not  making  a 
fortune,  but  eking  out  a  livelihood.  Meantime 
I  have  got  another  situation  with  a  Chancery 
barrister,  in  which  I  do  not  get  more  than  about 
185.  a  week,  but  where  the  work  is  light,  and  I 
uu  not  require  to  go  out  of  town.  My  wife  at- 
tends to  tin-  shop  during  the  day,  and  at  night 
too ;  but  if  the  custom  of  the  shop  should  in- 
crease, so  as  to  enable  us  to  maintain  our  family 
by  it,  I  will  "  cut "  the  law  altogether ;  and  acting 
6 


(]'2  A  LAWYER'S  CLERK'S  TALK. 

on  my  father's  maxim,  bring  up  my  children 
to  "  honest "  trades,  instead  of  learning  them 
a  shabby  gentility,  which  may  make  them  more 
helpless  in  a  great  city  than  a  Spitalfields  or  a 
Paisley  weaver. 


SPRING. 

HAIL,  welcome  Spring !  delightful  Spring ! 

Thy  joys  are  now  begun  : 
Earth's  frozen  chains  are  rent  in  twain 

By  yonder  glorious  sun. 
The  dews  of  eve,  on  meadows  green, 

And  waving  blades  of  corn, 
Like  diamonds  set  in  emeralds  sheen, 

Are  twinkling  in  the  morn. 

Sweet  Spring! 

In  thee  the  snowdrop  finds  a  grave ; 

Meanwhile  the  primrose  pale 
Grows  sweetly  on  the  sunny  bank ; 

The  daisy  in  the  vale 
With  golden  eye  looks  beautiful ; 

Young  trees  fresh  odors  fling,— 
Their  incense  rises  to  the  skies 

In  worshipping  the  Spring. 

Sweet  Spring! 

All  living  things  that  life  enjoy 

Are  now  instinct  with  love  : 
In  pairs  fond  creatures  woo  on  earth, 

In  pairs  they  woo  above. 


64  SPRINC. 

The  echoing  woods  in  music  speak, 
As  winded  minstrels  sing, 

Uniting  heaven  ami  earth  with  song 
In  welcoming  the  Spring. 

t  Spring! 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  Winter,  all 

Tiirir  lesson  iv;ul  to  man, 
Ami  teach  him  sorrow's  not  the  end 
Of  :it  plan  : 

may  be, 
:ug, 

Lik<  -is  they  pass  away, 

And  welcome  glorious  Spring. 

t  Spring ! 


FORAGERS. 

THE  reader  must,  we  think,  have  observed 
among  the  various  classes  which  compose  that 
curious  piece  of  mosaic  work  called  society,  one 
of  a  particularly  puzzling  sort  of  character.  It 
is  composed  of  persons,  and  very  respectable- 
looking  persons  too,  who  contrive  to  live,  and 
live  well,  without  any  visible  or  known  means 
of  doing  so.  But  there  is  a  means  for  all  that, 
and  we  know  the  trick  of  the  thing.  These 
persons  forage :  they  beat  about  for  a  living,  in 
a  way  which  we  hope  presently  to  illustrate  in  a 
very  plain,  if  not  a  satisfactory  manner. 

In  the  course  of  our  life  we  have  personally 
known  three  perfect  specimens  of  the  class  of 
persons  we  speak  of.  Three  only!  but  they 
were  splendid  geniuses  in  their  several  ways. 
We  say  in  their  several  ways ;  because,  though 
of  precisely  the  same  genus,  and  though  pro- 
ceeding on  precisely  the  same  principles,  they 
were  somewhat  different,  both  in  their  character 
and  special  modes  of  operation. 

The  first  of  these  —  we  range  them  accord- 
ing to  the  chronological  order  of  our  acquaint- 
ance with  them  —  was  Dick  Spelter,  as  he  was 
6* 


66  FORAGERS. 

iarly  called  by  his  coevals;  but  our  ac- 
quaintance with  him  having  been  in  our  younger 
m,  ami  merely  through  his  sons,  who  were 
our  schoolfellows,  we  called  him,  with  a  respect 
for  our  elders  becoming  our  years,  Mister 
Spel: 

-.as  at  this  time  somewhere  about 
forty -five  years  of  ugc,  was  a  personage  of 
rather  tall  stature,  but  somewhat  bent.  1  It- 
stooped  a  little  —  a  consequence,  we  before,  ««t 
•ion  to  the  object  of  cir- 
cumventing the  difficulties  of  the  day. 

was  always  on  the  ground,  and  he  was  al- 
ways busied  in  thought.  lie  wound  his 

through   the   busiest   streets  of  the   city. 
Neither  the  bustling  nor  jostling  o:  peo- 

ple, nor  the  perils  of  coach  and  carr,  could  for 
a  moment  withdraw  him  from  the  profound 
abstraction  by  which  he  seemed  always  en- 
grossed. The  countenance  of  this  prince  of 
foragers,  for  so  we  reckon  him,  was  a  peculiar 
one.  It  had  a  startling  sinister  look ;  proceed- 
ing, chiefly,  from  a  habit  he  had  acquired  of 
gathering  a  large  portion  of  his  optical  informa 
tion  by  the  tail  of  his  eye,  by  side-long  glances 
This  sinister  expression  was  also  heightened  b} 
an  habitual  grin,  which  he  intended,  we  dar< 
say,  for  a  smile,  and  which  on  any  other  coun 
tenance  would,  perhaps,  actually  have  been 


FORAGERS.  67 

such  a  thing ;  but  on  his  it  was  the  most  alarm- 
ing-looking thing  imaginable  —  cunning,  sly, 
and  roguish.  Altogether,  Dick's  countenance, 
both  in  form  and  expression,  bore  a  strange  re- 
semblance to  that  of  an  overgrown  cat ;  it  ex- 
hibited the  same  indications  of  a  deep,  design- 
ing, and  treacherous  nature.  But  the  resem- 
blance just  spoken  of  held  good  in  other  par- 
ticulars besides.  Dick  was  quiet  and  demure, 
spoke  little,  and  made  no  noise  whatever  of  any 
kind.  His  step  was  slow,  deliberate  and  meas- 
ured, light  and  stealthy.  He  rather  glided  than 
walked,  and  when  in  motion  always  carried  his 
hands  behind  him  beneath  the  skirts  of  his  coat. 
Thus  it  was  that  he  might  have  been  seen  skip- 
ping noiselessly,  and  you  would  imagine,  unob- 
served, through  the  streets,  but  Dick  was  wide 
awake.  He  had  all  his  eyes  about  him,  or,  at 
least,  the  corners  of  them,  and  nothing  could 
escape  their  vigilance;  they  were  in  quest  of 
prey.  Dick,  in  short,  was  what  is  called  a  deep 
one,  and  a  sly  one  to  boot 

At  the  time  we  knew  Mr.  Spelter,  Mr.  Spelter 
was  doing  nothing ;  that  is,  he  was  not  engaged 
in  any  business,  nor  occupied  by  any  employ- 
ment :  yet  Mr.  Spelter  had  no  other  ostensible 
means  of  living,  not  the  smallest;  and  yet, 
again,  Mr.  Spelter  and  his  family  lived  well 
and  comfortably.  They  wanted  for  nothing, 


68  FORAGKKS. 

neither  food  nor  raiment.  There  was  a  man  of 
talent  for  you !  Why  we,  ourselves,  while  we 
record  the  fact,  are  overwhelmed  with  admira- 
tion of  his  genius  —  of  the  genius  of  that  man 
who  could  rear  up  a  family,  a  large  family,  on  — 
nothing ! 

When  we  said  that  Mr.  Spelter,  when  we 
knew  him,  was  doing  nothing,  we  will,  of  course, 
be  understood  in  a  particular  and  limited  sense. 
He  doing  nothing!  Mr.  Spelter  was  doing  an 
immense  deal.  He  was  the  .an  in  the 

busy  city  to  which  he  belonged  ;  how  else  could 
he  have  done  what  he  did  ?  Maintained  his 
family  genteelly  without  the  vulgar  aid  of  coin, 
the  resource  of  your  common-place  ideal  men. 
Dick's  notions  were  much  too  sublime  for  this. 
He  created  something,  and  something  substan- 
tial too,  out  of  nothing,  —  never  stooped  to  in- 
ferior practice. 

Mr.  Spelter,  however,  although  not  engaged 
in  any  regular  business  during  the  time  we  en- 
joyed the  honor  of  his  acquaintance,  had  been 
so  at  one  period  of  his  life  ;  but  what  that  busi- 
ness was,  when  or  where  he  carried  it  on,  we 
never  knew,  —  nor  did  any  body  else.  No  one 
could  tell  what  he  had  been,  although  there  was 
a  pretty  general  though  vague  idea,  that  he  had 
been  something  or  other  somewhere  or  some- 
time. This,  indeed,  is  a  never-absent  feature  in 


FORAGERS.  69 

the  cases  of  all  his  class.  They  have  always 
started  in  the  world  in  the  regular  way,  but 
have,  some  way  or  other,  always  fallen 
through  it. 

It  would  gratify  the  reader,  we  dare  say,  if 
we  could  give  him  "  a  swatch  o'  Spelter's  way,'1 
—  if  we  would  give  a  detailed  specimen  of  his 
proceedings  in  the  way  of  foraging;  but  we 
must  at  once  declare  that  we  cannot  do  this. 
His  ways  were  mysterious ;  you  only  saw  results. 
All  that  wo  can  say  about  the  matter  is,  then, 
that  his  house  never  wanted  abundance  of  the 
creature-comforts  of  life :  there  were  hams, 
cheeses,  kits  of  butter,  boxes  of  candles  and 
soap,  —  everything,  in  short,  necessary  to  good 
housekeeping,  and  in  never-failing,  never-ending 
supply.  But  where  they  came  from,  or  how 
obtained,  who  could  tell? — we  never  could, 
nor  could  we  ever  even  form  a  conjecture  on 
the  subject.  There  they  were,  and  that  is  all  we 
can  say  about  them.  We  have  reason,  however, 
to  believe  that  Dick  did  sometimes  sail  rather 
near  the  wind  in  some  of  his  catering  expedi- 
tions ;  that  is,  that  some  of  his  transactions  had 
a  shade — just  a  shade  or  so  —  of  swindling  in 
th<-ir  complexion.  We  have  heard  that  some- 
thing approaching  to  this  was  the  character  of  a 
particular  rase  of  a  sack  of  potatoes,  which 
Dick  had  somehow  or  other  come  across.  Be 


70  FORAGERS. 

tliis  as  it  may,  there  certainly  were  some  un- 
pleasant consequences  attending  this  affair. 
Dick  was  actually  pursued  —  not  at  law,  for  no- 
body ever  dreamt  of  throwing  away  money  in 
pursuing  Dick  at  law,  —  but  in  his  own  proper 
11,  and  by  the  proper  person  of  the  owner 
of  the  potatoes.  On  that  occasion,  Dick,  being 
hard  pressed  took  to  the  roof  of  his  own  house 
through  a  skylight ;  for  the  enemy  had  made  a 
lodgment  even  in  the  very  heart  of  his  domicile ; 
and  escaped,  after  exhibiting  sundry  feats  of 
fearlessness  and  agility  in  skipping  along  steep 
roofs  and  scrambling  over  airily  situated  rliim- 
neys,  all  at  the  height  of  some  hundred  i< •» -t 
from  the  ground.  It  is  said  that  the  potato-man 
had  :  ty  to  give  Dick  chase  over  a  roof 

or   two,  but   soon   abandoned    the    pursuit,  as 
equally  hopeless  as  dangerous. 

The  next  in  order  of  our  foragers  is  Sandy 
Lorimer.  Although  pursuing  the  same  pecul- 
iar walk  in  life,  and  acting  on  precisely  the 
same  principles  as  Dick,  Sandy  was,  in  other 
respects  a  totally  different  man.  He,  again, 
was  a  stout,  bold,  noisy  personage,  with  an  im- 
posing presence,  and  loud,  hearty  voice.  Dick 
carried  his  points  by  circumvention ;  Sandy  by 
a  coup-de-main.  He  advanced  boldly  on  his 
prey,  pounced  on  it  at  once,  and  bore  it  off  in 
triumph.  He  did  the  thing  by  open,  fearless, 


FORAGERS.  71 

we  suppose  we  must  call  it  —  effrontery.  Sandy 
had  formed  a  general  intimacy,  not  merely  a 
trading  acquaintance,  (mark  the  excellent  policy 
of  this,)  with  a  large  circle  of  dealers  of  all 
sorts, — grocers,  butchers,  bakers,  &c.,  &c.,  &c. 
Being  on  this  footing  with  these  persons,  he 
entered  their  premises,  when  on  the  hunt  for 
provender,  with  a  hearty  freedom  and  familiarity 
of  manner  that  admirably  facilitated  his  subse- 
quent proceedings,  and  altogether  deprived  them 
of  the  power  of  denial.  They  could  not,  in 
fact,  find  in  their  hearts  to  refuse  him  anything, 
even  though  perfectly  conscious  at  the  moment 
that  they  would  never  see  a  farthing  of  its  value ; 
his  manner  was  so  taking,  so  plausible,  so  im- 
posing. The  impudent  courage  of  the  man, 
too,  was  admirable;  beyond  all  praise.  The 
length  of  a  score,  either  as  to  figures  or  time,  or 
both,  never  daunted  him  in  the  slightest  degree 
He  would  enter  the  shop  where  the  fatal  docu- 
ment existed,  and  face  the  inditer  thereof  with 
as  bold  and  unflinching  a  front  as  if  the  money 
was  due  to  him ;  and  that  shop  he  never  left 
without  adding  something  to  the  dismal  record 
of  his  obligation. 

His  butcher's  shop,  for  instance, — where  there 
was,  to  our  certain  knowledge,  a  score  against 
him  a  yard  long,  and  which  had  been  standing 
for  years, —  he  would  enter  with  a  shout,  and 


72  FORAGERS. 

hilarious  roar,  slap  the  butcher  on  the  shoulder 
with  a  hearty  thwack,  and  ask  him  what  new*  ? 
lie  would  then  turn  round  on  his  heel,  and  eom- 
mene  of  all  the  tid-bits  exposed 

for  sale,  praising  and   admiring  everything  he 

•  length  his  well-practised  eve  sel. 
choice  morsel. 

"There, now,  Mr.  I'./'  ta  would  say,  advanc- 
ing towards  the  article  in  question,  "  there,  now, 
ill  a  nice    little    roast.      That 
docs  you  credit.      What  may  the  .  r  " 

.'Uteher    U  il«.wn,  ami 

'!,  ho\\e\,  r,  \\ith   iniieh 
f.-r   he    has  certain  i    the 

ct.     But  Sand  minds   this,  though 

he  se  ;  to  he  driven  from 

purpose  by  sulky  looks.  "£le?en  pounds 
and  a  half,  Mr.  Lorhner,"  at  length  says  the 
butc! 

••  Hoy ,1f  says  Sandy,  addressing  a  little  ragged 
urchin,  who  is  in  waiting  to  carry  forcuston 
44  take  this  out  to  my  house  ; "  and,  without  giving 
the  butcher  time  to  adopt  counteracting  i 
should  he  have  contemplated  them,  the  beef  \\as 
popped  into  the  boy's  tray,  and  despatched  from 
the  premises.     This  is  one  particular  point  in 
the  forager's  practice.      Another  is,  never  to 
trust  to  the  seller  of  an  article  sending  it  home 
to  you,  but  always  to  see  it  despatched,  beyond 


FORAGERS.  73 

hope  of  recall,  before  leaving  the  shop  vourself. 
These  points  Mr.  Lorimer  always  carefully  ob- 
served, and  his  success  was  commensurate  with 
his  forethought. 

Besides  catering  for  the  family,  however,  Mr. 
Lorimer  picked  up  a  very  tolerable  independent 
living  of  his  own  ;  and  this  he  accomplished  by 
the  following  process  :  On  entering  a  grocer's 
shop,  he  is  particularly  struck  with  the  rich  look 
of  a  cut  cheese  that  is  lying  on  the  counter. 
He  openly  expresses  his  admiration  of  it,  being 
on  a  familiar  footing  with  the  shopkeeper.  He 
takes  up  the  knife  that  is  lying  beside  it,  with  a 
hearty,  pleasant  freedom  of  manner;  keeping 
the  shopkeeper  the  while  in  play  by  an  animated 
conversation.  He  cuts  off  a  whacking  slice, 
and  despatches  it,  having  probably  asked  his 
friend  to  toss  him  over  a  biscuit.  Luncheon,  then, 
has  been  secured,  but  something  is  wanted  to 
wash  it  down.  A  glass  of  ale  or  a  draught  of 
porter  is  in  request,  but  this  he  cannot  with  a 
good  grace  ask  where  he  has  had  his  cheese. 
Indeed,  there  is  no  such  opportunity  as  would 
warrant  him  in  asking  it.  He  must  catch  some 
one  of  his  numerous  friends  in  the  liquor  line 
in  the  act,  in  the  particular  predicament,  of 
bottling;  and  this  a  little  perseverance,  aided  by 
a  shrewd  guess  of  the  most  likely  places,  ena- 
bles him  to  accomplish.  He  has  also  acquired 
7 


74  FORAGERS. 

the  free  entrance  (by  what  means  we  know  not) 
of  a  certain  range  of  bonded  cellars,  where  he 
can,  occasionally,  pick  up  a  glass  or  two  of 
choice  wine,  which,  with  a  biscuit,  and  perhaps 
a  slice  of  ham  foraged  in  some  other  quarter, 
he  can  make  a  pretty  substantial  passover. 

Such,  then,  is  Mr.  Lorimer. 

The  next  on  our  list  is  Major  Longson,  —  the 
civil,  polite,  well-informed,  bowing-and-scruping 
Major  Longson.  By  we  never  knew  pre- 

cisely how  he  acquired  this  same  military  title,  we 
rather  think  it  was  a  local-militia  honor,  for  the 
major's  name  never  appeared   in  any  army-list. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  however,  major  he  was  a! 
called,  and  by  no  other  title  was  he  knoun. 

The  major  was  an  elderly  man,  ^ray-1, 
and  of  a  grave,  thoughtful,  and  intelligent  coun- 
tenance; mild  and  pleasant,  of  speech  —  soft, 
smooth,  and  insinuating ;    but   1.-  most 

determined  forager,  and  a  perfect  master  of  his 
business,  which,  however,  he  conducted  in  a 
quiet,  gentlemanly  sort  of  way.  In  his  mode 
of  proceeding,  there  was  a  peculiarity  which 
does  not  characterize  the  practice  of  the  other 
two.  The  major  dealt  largely  in  samples, — 
samples  of  wine,  samples  of  cheese,  samples 
of  tea,  samples  of  everything  ;  but  we  suppose 
we  must  be  more  explicit.  To  be  so,  then. 
The  major  had  a  habit  of  making  tours  among 


FORAGERS.  75 

the  dealers  in  the  articles  named,  and  all  others 
useful  in  housekeeping,  (the  major  was  a  bache- 
lor, and  had  therefore  no  family  to  provide  for, 
nobody  but  himself,)  and  in  the  most  polite  and 
engaging  manner  possible,  requested  a  sample 
of  some  particular  commodity.  It  was  at  once 
given  him ;  and  if  the  article  was,  say  tea,  he 
never  failed  to  go  home  with  at  least  a  pound 
weight  in  his  pocket ;  and  so  of  all  the  other 
necessaries  of  which  he  stood  in  need. 

We  have  oAen  been  surprised  at  the  singular 
talent  which  the  major  possessed  of  scenting 
out  edibles,  and  that  in  the  most  unlikely  places. 
He  must  either  have  had  some  wonderful  gift 
of  nose,  or  some  strange  intuitive  guiding  power 
that  conducted  him  to  his  prey.  A  friend  of  ours 
and  an  acquaintance  of  the  major's,  at  whose 
place  of  business  he  occasionally  called,  once 
happened  to  have  a  small  consignment  of  figs 
from  Smyrna  sent  to  him.  Our  friend  was  in  a 
totally  different  line  of  business,  dealing  in 
nothing  that  would  either  eat  or  drink,  but  of 
this  consignment  he  took  charge,  stowing  the 
drums  of  figs  into  a  small  dark  back  room, 
that  they  might  be  out  of  harm's  way ;  being 
too  tempting  an  article  to  keep  in  an  exposed 
place.  But,  of  all  the  depredators  whom  our 
friend  dreaded,  there  was  no  one  whom  he  so 
much  feared  as  the  major,  whose  foraging 


76  FORAGERS. 

habits  he  well  knew.  When  he  came,  there- 
fore, the  door  of  the  little  apartment  in  which 
the  figs  were  stored  was  always  carefully  closed, 
and  every  allusion  to  the  delicate  fruit  sedulously 
avoided  in  his  presence.  Vain  precaution ! 
Bootless  anxiety !  One  morning  the  major 
entered  our  friend's  counting-house  with  a  pecu- 
liarly bland  countenance,  and  smiling  and  bow- 
ing, said,  he  had  been  informed  that  Mr.  S.  had 
got  a  consignment  of  figs!  If  perfectly  con- 
nt,  he  would  like  to  see  them  ;  —  he  was 
extremely  fond  of  figs; — a  fine  wholesome 
fruit,  &c.,  &c. 

We  leave  the  reader  to  conceive  our  friend's 
amazement  and  mortification  on  being  thus  ad- 
dressed by  the  major — the  man,  of  all  others, 
from  whom  he  was  most  desirous  to  conceal  the 
luscious  treasure;  for  he  knew  that  he  would 
not  only  carry  ofF  the  usual  sample  for  himself, 
but  that  he  would  come  day  after  day,  as  long 
as  a  fig  remained,  to  get  samples  for  his  friends, 
(this,  of  course,  fudge,)  in  an  affected  zeal  to 
find  purchasers  for  the  consignee.  All  this 
accordingly  took  place,  and  the  major  effected 
an  entrance  next  day  ;  but,  fortunately,  the  figs 
had  been  all  disposed  of  and  removed  in  the 
interim.  Our  friend  could  never  conceive 
where  or  how  the  major  had  obtained  his  intel- 
ligence in  the  case  just  mentioned  ;  but  it  was, 


FORAGERS. 


77 


after  all,  only  one  of  a  thousand  every  whit  as 
mysterious  and  unaccountable.  The  major  was 
evidently  born  with  an  intuitive  talent  for  finding 
the  depositories  of  good  things,  be  these  where 
they  might :  they  could  not  escape  him ;  for  his 
vigilance  was  great,  his  scent  unerring. 

Being  fond  of  all  sorts  of  delnctable  edibles, 
fish  was,  of  course,  on  the  major's  list ;  and  he 
was,  fortunately,  so  situated  locally  as  to  put  a 
good  deal  of  enjoyment  of  this  kind  in  his  way. 
He  lived,  in  the  first  place,  in  a  village  situated 
on  the  sea-coast,  several  of  the  wealthier  inhabi 
tants  of  which  kept  pleasure-boats,  with  which 
they  went  frequently  a-fishirig  for  amusement. 
Now,  the  movements  of  these  boats  the  major 
watched  with  a  sharp  and  wary  eye,  so  that  they 
could  not  land  a  tail,  on  returning  from  a  piscatory 
expedition,  without  his  presence  or  his  know- 
ledge. Hovering  about  on  the  coast,  like  a  huge 
sea-gull,  he  pounced  on  the  boat  the  moment  it 
touched  the  strand  ;  having  been  seen,  some 
time  previously,  bowing,  and  scraping,  and  smi- 
ling to  the  party  as  they  approached  the  shore. 
"  Pleasant  day,  gentlemen,  for  your  excursion  ; 
—  excellent  sport,  I  hope  —  some  beautiful  fish, 
no  doubt.  Ah  !  there  now  ! "  —  (the  major  is 
now  leaning  over  the  gunwale,  and  pointing  out 
with  his  cane  some  of  the  choicest  specimens  of 
the  finny  tribe  which  it  contains,)  — "  there  is  a 
7* 


78  FORAGEKS. 

lovely  fish :  three  pound  weight,  if  it's  an  ounce. 
There  is  another  beautiful  fish,  —  and  there — • 
and  there  —  and  there  :  all  these  are  excellent." 
The  amateur  fishermen  take  the  hint,  and  the 
major  is  invited  to  take  a  few.  He  runs  up  to 
the  house  :  in  a  twinkling  a  servant-girl,  with  a 
clean  towel  or  a  basin,  is  at  the  side  of  the  boat, 
with  the  major's  compliments  to  "the  gentlemen," 
and  in  another  twinkling  a  dozen  of  the  best  fish 
are  on  their  way  to  the  major's  kitcheu  1 


79 


WHAT   IS   LOVE? 

'Tis  a  child  of  phansie's  getting, 

Brought  up  between  hope  and  fear, 
Fed  with  smiles,  grown  by  uniting 

Strong,  and  so  kept  by  desire : 
'Tis  a  perpetual  vestal  fire, 

Never  dying, 

Whose  smoak,  like  incense,  doth  aspire 
Howards  flying. 


It  is  a  soft  magnetick  stone, 

Attracting  hearts  by  sympathie, 
Binding  up  close  two  souis  in  one 

Both  discoursing  secretlie : 
'Tis  the  troe  Gordian  knot  that  ties, 

Yet  ne'er  unbinds, 
Fixing  thus  two  lovers'  eies 
As  wel  as  minds. 


Tis  the  spheres'  heavenly  harmonic 
Where  two  skilful  hands  do  strike  ; 

And  every  sound  expressively 
Marries  sweetly  with  the  like : 


80  WHAT    IS    LOVE  ? 

'Tis  the  world's  everlasting  chain, 
That  all  things  ti'd, 

And  bid  them,  like  the  fixed  wain, 
Uumov'd  to  bide. 


81 


DELIBERATION;  OR,   THE   CHOICE. 

14  OH  !  do  come,  Mary,  into  the  garden ;  it  is 
getting  so  beautiful.  The  lupines  I  sowed  the 
other  day  are  coming  up  already,  and  there  are 
so  many  fresh  roses  out  this  morning." 

44  Just  now,  Jane,  I  am  engaged." 

"  Oh !  but  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  to  trans- 
plant some  of  my  new  flowers." 

"  Well,  well ;  we'll  see  about  it  by  and  by. 
Why  Jane,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  !  Tears 
in  your  eyes !  " 

44  Hush  —  speak  low  !  I  want  to  see  you 
alone." 

44  Come,  then,  into  the  garden.  —  Now,  my 
dear  Jane,  what  ails  you  ?  " 

44  Read  that  letter." 


"  What  my  eyes  must  have  long  since  told  you,  my 
lips  refuse  any  longer  to  conceal.  I  love  you  deeply, 
fervently,  everlastingly.  Should  my  fate  have  such  a 
blessing  in  store  for  me  as  to  render  me  worthy  in  your 
eyes,  and  to  give  me  the  most  charming  of  women, 
it  would  indeed  render  mo  the  happiest  of  men  !  I 
lay  my  all  at  your  feet,  and  count  every  minute  an 
hour  till  you  bless  me  with  one  word  of  hope." 


H'J  DELIBERATION  ; 

"  This  is  indeed  serious,  though  not  otlwi \vise 

than  I  IA  I.     Markham  loves 

you.     ftt,  il  was  but  too  evident  for  hia  own 

peace  of  mind,  or  Maxwell's,  who  has  beheld, 

with  no  unnatural  impatience,  this  stranger's  at- 

'ii  to  yuti.     Well,  he  must  be   answered  at 

To  leave  him  one  moment   in   suspense 

were  unpardonable.      You   must  toll   him  you 

consider  yourself  engaged  to  another  :  if  he  be 

an  honorable  man,  you  will  thus  win  his  respect 

•ur  trunk  avowal,  and  at  once  cause   him 

to  dismiss  from  his  mind  all  thoughts  of  further 

solicitation.11 

"Well,  but — I  mean  —  that  is  —  hadn't  I 
better  show  the  letter  to  pap:, 

"  Not  for  the  world,  my  dear  sister.  Why 
would  you  unnecessarily  violate  a  confidence 
that  a  rtf  hold  sacred? — You 

do  not  answer  me.     Is  it  possible  that  you  love 
this  man,  and  that  the  noble-hearted  being,  who 
.a  !)   almost  idolizes  you,  is 
forgotten 

"  Well,  sister,  you  are  very  sudJen  in  your 
suppositions.  Let  us  go  in." 

"  One  word  first.    Do  you  think  I  love  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  Yet,  forgive  me  this  petulance 
—  I  am  very  miserable." 

\ay,  my  dearest,  only  sister,  don't  sob  so. 
Here,  come  into  the  arbor.     Let  us  now  clearly 


OR,    THE    CHOICE.  83 

understand  what  it  is  we  are  to  grieve  and  weep 
so  about.  I  say  we  ;  for,  believe  me,  whatever 
touches  thy  heart  is  not  far  from  mine.  Come, 
now,  you  were  fond  of  asking  my  advice,  and 
—  O  rare  virtue  !  my  sister, — generally  to  fol- 
low it.  Why  didst  thou  do  so  ?  " 

"  Because  you  always  understood  me,  even 
when  we  differed  ;  and  your  judgment  was  bet- 
ter than  mine." 

"  Well,  I  will  try  to  understand  you  once 
more.  So,  now  your  heart  —  mark  me,  your 
heart  —  and  I  will  talk  together.  Do  you  love 
this  Markham  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  to  say  No,  and  still  more  afraid 
to  say  Yes." 

"  At  all  events,  you  like  him  better  for  a  hus- 
band than  Maxwell  ?  " 

u  ye  — yes!" 

"  How  long  have  you  known  this  stranger?  " 

"  Three  months." 

"And  Maxwell?" 

"Thirteen  years." 

"  Which  loves  you  best  ?  " 

"Mark 1  don't  know." 

"  That's  my  own  sister.  If  we  do  choose 
his  rival,  we'll  at  least  give  poor  Maxwell  fair 
play.  You  think  Markham  handsome  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  I  own  his  rival  plain,  unless  when  he 


84  DELIBERATION  ; 

is  sometimes  gazing  on  you,  or  when  you  speak 
suddenly  to  him.  This  stranger  dresses  well, 
too;  his  air  is  polished  and  gentlemanly,  his 
manners  agreeable.  Anything  more?  Oh, 
1 — as  Othello  says,  he  'sings,  plays,  and 
dances  well.1  Anything  more  ?  Do  you  think 
his  judgment  good?  —  in  portry,  for  instance." 

"  lie  loves  it  dearly." 

"  For  its  own  sake  or  yours  ?  Well,  we  will 
pass  that,  and  believe,  as  the  young  god  could 
make  a  Cymon  love,  he  may  accomplish  the 
still  harder  task,  and  make  a  line  gi-ntleman 
poetic 

"Don't  you  think  his  dispositio;  :it?" 

"  As  an  impulse,  yes,  but  no  further ;  and 
therefore,  as  an  impulse,  liable  to  lead  him  as 
often  wrong  as  right;  to  be  always  impelling 
him  to  attempt  good  and  great  things,  but  i 
rendering  him  capable  of  those  patient  and  ar- 
duous exertions  by  which  alone  the -y  are  accom- 
plished. But  I  will  tell  you  something  of  him 
that  has  pleased  me.  What !  your  eyes  sparkle 
at  that.  Poor  old  Widow  Smith's  son  fell  from 
a  ladder  the  other  day,  and  broke  his  leg,  and 
almost  at  the  same  time  his  mother's  heart.  Mr. 
Markham  happened  to  be  passing  at  the  time, 
and  was  indefatigable  in  his  endeavors  to  get 
him  carefully  conveyed  to  the  hospital;  and 
when  he  left  him  at  the  door  gave  him  some 


OR,   THE    CHOICE.  85 

money,  having  heard,  on  his  way,  that  his  pa- 
rent was  bedridden,  and  totally  dependent  on  the 
man's  exertions." 

"  Well,  that  was  noble  of  him.  Dear  me  ! 
Poor  old  Widow  Smith  !  I  have  heard  nothing 
of  this  before.  Who  informed  you  of  it  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  neighbors.  I  went  this  morning 
to  the  hospital,  to  see  if  I  could  do  anything  for 
the  poor  fellow.  I  found  him  better  than  I  ex- 
pected :  some  one,  who  had  heard  of  the  acci- 
dent, and  knew  the  impossibility  of  parent  and 
son  seeing  e^ch  other  in  their  distress,  had  visited 
them  daily, — and  oh!  the  value  of  kind  feel- 
ings, kind  thoughts,  and  kind  words,  at  such  a 
time  !  No  medicines  like  them  !  Sitting  by 
ooor  Smith's  bedside,  I  found  this  excellent  per- 
son ;  and  he  it  was  who  told  me  of  Mr.  Mark- 
ham's  benevolence." 

"  And  did  he  —  that  is,  Mr.  Markham  —  go 
to  see  poor  Smith  at  the  hospital  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  I  wish  he  had.  Who  was  this  admirable 
man  you  have  been  speaking  of?  " 

"  Why,  to  be  sure  Mr.  Markham's  visit  would 
have  gratified  the  sufferer  even  more  than  his 
money ;  but  to  blame  him  for  not  doing  more, 
is  but  an  ill  return  for  what  he  has  done.  Be- 
sides, an  hospital  is  not,  of  all  places  in  the 
world,  the  pleasantest  to  visit ;  and  the  person 
8 


86  DELIBERATION  ; 

I  have  alluded  to  had  done  all  that  was  possible 
and  requisite  under  the  circumstances." 

••  Poor  old  Widow  Smith !      I'll  go  and  see 

•lirectly.     But  who  was  it  that  praised  .Mr. 

Murkham  for  his  kindness,  while  so  much  more 

deserving  praise  himself?     Do  you  know  him  ?" 

44  Oh,  yes ;  he  is  the  best  of  men.  When  I 
first  knew  him,  it  was  as  the  friend  of  him  whom 
—  but  the  time  is  favorable.  You  shall  know 
now,  for  the  first  time,  the  particulars  of  that 
passage  of  my  life  you  have  so  often  asked  me 
to  explain.  I  could  not  then.  Alas  !  I  have  no 
longer  any  moti\  •  conccalim-nt." 

"  My  dear  sister !  how  sadly  you  speak. 
Don't  tell  me  now; — I  have  not  seen  you  so 
moved  this  long  time.  Why  there's  a  tear 
here 

44  Is  there  ?  May  it  then  wash  away  the  un- 
happy remembrance  of  his  errors  !  I  may  now 
freely  mourn  over  him  in  death  ;  and,  sad  as 
that  is,  it  is  a  relief  to  what  I  have  endured. 
Oh,  the  misery  of  weeping  hopelessly  over  the 
living  !  I  can  now  trust  myself  to  think  of  the 
only  man  I  ever  loved." 

••  Mr.  Stewart,  you  mean  ?  " 

44 1  do.  You  know  of  our  early  engagement, 
our  sudden  unexplained  separation.  No  !  you 
were  too  young  even  to  guess  at  the  causes  ; 
and  of  his  history  you  have  hitherto  heard  so 


OR,    THE  CHOICE.  87 

little,  that  probably  much  of  what  I  am  about  to 
speak  will  be  new  to  you.  William  Stewart  was 
the  son  of  poor  parents,  and  his  early  years 
were  passed  in  scenes  of  daily  privation  and 
toil.  Would  that  had  been  all !  His  father 
was  a  violent,  self-willed,  proud-tempered  man, 
who  had  known  better  days ;  his  mother  was 
capable  of  almost  any  meanness.  It  is  strange 
in  what  uncongenial  soils  and  places  the  human 
mind  will  grow  into  strength  and  beauty.  When 
I  first  knew  Stewart,  he  was  a  frank,  grace- 
ful-minded, happy-hearted  youth,  with  a  touch 
of  ambition  that  promised  to  elevate  and 
strengthen  his  character.  Of  his  mother's  dis- 
position I  perceived  no  traces  in  him ;  of  his 
father's,  very  little.  We  wandered  together 
through  every  part  of  the  broad  forest ;  we  sat 
together  for  hours  side  by  side  on  the  river- 
banks  ;  we  collected  plants,  mosses,  and  lichens, 
which,  as  he  gathered,  I  explained.  I  think  I 
see  him  now  climbing  one  of  the  loftiest  oaks, 
to  fetch  me  an  apple,  and  shaking  the  boughs 
above  him,  which  he  could  not  reach,  with  such 
violence  that  I  was  alarmed  for  his  safety  ;  I 
still  hear  his  clear,  ringing  laugh,  as  a  bunch  of 
the  finest  fruit  fell  at  my  feet.  I  was,  indeed, 
but  too  happy  '  We  parted  ;  —  he  began  the 
career  we  both  believed  would  lead  to  success, 
comprising  in  that  one  word,  honor,  wealth,  and 


DELIBERATION  , 

fame.      Time  nxl   we  were   again  to 

but,  alas  !  the  spirit  that  had  so  en- 
thralled me,  had  lost  its  brightness.  He  loved 
me  still  —  he  loved  his  parents  ;  but  all  tin 
of  the  world  appeared  only  to  him  a  subject  for 
ridicule  or  hatred.  One  drop  of  disappoint- 
ment had  poisoned  the  whole  cup  of  life  ;  he 
had  not  prospered  as  he  expected.  To  me 
there  was  nothing  in  this  comparative  failure  but 
ought  to  have  been  anticipated.  I  saw  1m 

I  be  less  sanguine  of  immecli.r  ,  hut 

not  one  jot  less  hopeful  of  the  future.  Alas! 
his  aspirations  had  no  stronger  foundation  than 
vanity;  they  crumbled  and  fell  away  at  the  iirst 
shock.  The  seeds  of  hea  :  -.!!,  which 

an  evil  education  had  implanted,  and  which  is 
but  selfishness  under  another  name,  a  different 
aspect  had  now  germinated,  and  threatened,  un- 
less eradicated  by  a  vigorous  hand,  to  cover  all 
that  was  good  in  his  nature  with  their  baleful 
luxuriance.  He  grew  better  in  the  few  weeks, 

-pent  together;  became  more  patient  and 
amiable  ;  and,  when  the  evil  influences  were  not 
upon  him,  I  loved  him,  from  the  very  contrast, 
better  than  ever.  Again  we  were  severed;  — 
he  was  to  write  to  me  continually  —  he  wrote 
seldom.  What  the  world  calls  love  might  not 
in  his  case  have  diminished  ;  but  I  perceived, 
with  unutterable  agony,  that  my  influence  over 


OR,   THE    CHOICE.  89 

him  ww  totally  lost.  Spare  me  the  shame,  the 
anguish,  of  recording  the  evidences  of  his 
increasing  un.worthiness,  which  continually 
reached  me  :  suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  elevation 
of  mind,  the  purity  of  heart,  that  won  my  love, 
totally  disappeared,  I  felt,  for  ever." 

"  My  dear  sister  !  " 

"  For  a  long  time  I  saw,  though  afar  off,  the 
dreadful  end  of  all  this ;  but  I  hoped  until  the 
last  —  I  confided  till  I  felt  my  own  self-respect 
departing  from  me.  Then  it  was  I  determined 
to  break  the  toils  that  environed  me,  at  all  haz- 
ards. I  wrote  to  him  after  long  and  inexpressi- 
bly painful  meditation.  I  said, 4  Our  sympathies, 
our  motives,  are  no  longer  in  harmony  with  each 
other  —  let  us  part.'  I  did  all  I  could  to  soften 
what  I  felt  would  be  a  blow  to  him,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  let  him  see  my  decision  was  final. 
Anxiously  did  I  pray  to  Heaven  to  prepare  me 
for  the  interview  that  I  knew  must  follow.  He 
came,  and  with  him  the  friend  I  have  mentioned. 
Oh,  the  agony  of  that  scene  !  Prayers  and 
threats  prevailed  by  turns  :  one  moment  he  de- 
nounced, in  frenzied  terms,  my  inconstancy, 
and  even  threw  out  insinuations  as  to  my 
motives ;  the  next  he  threw  himself  at  my  feet, 
and  with  streaming  eyes  abjured  his  errors,  and 
more,  to  make  himself  all  that  I  wished  to  see 
him.  His  friend  interfered,  and  after  warmly 
8» 


90  DELIBERATION  ; 

checking  him  for  his  violence,  which  he  saw  I 
last  sinking  under,  persuaded  him  to  leave 
us  awhile.  He  now  proceeded  to  speak  of 
Stewart  in  terms  admirably  calculated  to  influ- 
my  determination  by  influencing  my  judg- 
ment ;  he  told  me  of  various  instances  of  his 
noble  impulses,  his  generosity,  of  his  deep,  un- 
bounded love  for  me,  which  he  had  witnessed. 
In  justice  to  myself,  I  explained  fully  my  feel- 
ings and  motives  ;  I  showed  him  the  gradual 
process  of  the  alienation  of  our  spirits  ;  whilst, 
as  to  his  violence  of  character,  his  friend  owned, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  he  could  neither  deny  the 
charge  nor  explain  it  away.  In  answer  I  was 
assured,  that  although  Mr.  Stewart  was  his  best, 
in  fact,  his  only  friend,  his  benefactor,  and  that 
he  loved  him  as  dearly  as  it  was  possible  for 
one  brother  to  love  another,  I  should  not  be  ba- 
nned, if  he  could  help  it,  by  distressing  solici- 
tation. He  ended  by  conjuring  me,  for  his  un- 
happy friend's  sake  as  well  as  my  own  future 
happiness,  to  hold  out  some  hope  —  to  give  him 
at  least  the  only  motive  that  could  redeem  him. 
With  broken  accents  he  said,  4  this,  at  least,  for 
the  very  life  of  his  friend,'  he  hoped.  I  shud- 
dered ;  I  could  bear  no  more,  but  fainted  away. 
When  I  recovered,  I  found  Stewart  and  his 
friend  bending  over  me  ;  the  former  uttering  a 
thousand  incoherent  passionate  exclamations. 


OK,   THE   CHOICE.  91 

Dreading  a  recurrence  of  the  fit,  which  Stew- 
art's violence  might  bring  on,  his  friend  with 
great  difficulty  drew  him  away." 

"  Oh,  this  is  dreadful  indeed  !  What  could 
you  do  ?  " 

44 1  had  overrated  my  strength  —  this  was  too 
much  for  me.  The  still  small  voice  yet  whis- 
pered within,  4  He  is  beyond  your  power  — 
recovery  is  hopeless,'  but  I  could  not  deny  him 
anything  that  even  appeared  to  influence  him 
for  the  better.  I  yielded  so  far  as  to  agree  still 
to  correspond  with  him,  although  I  could  not, 
would  not,  now  again  see  him.  I  knew  he 
would  have  striven  to  induce  me  to  make  still 
further  concessions,  and  God  knows  the  anguish 
that  I  felt  whenever  I  refused  him  a  request.  I 
knew  also  that,  if  any  possibility  of  future  hap- 
piness still  existed  for  us,  there  was  but  one  way 
to  roach  it,  and  that  was,  to  deepen  the  impres- 
sions upon  his  mind  of  these  painful  scenes,  so 
as  to  make  their  instruction  permanent.  His 
friend  mournfully  acquiesced  in  the  propriety 
and  necessity  of  my  decision,  and  left  me  to 
inform  Stewart  of  the  result,  which  (must  I  own 
the  painful  truth?)  I  could  not  but  hope  would, 
on  the  whole,  gratify  him.  I  experienced  also 
a  relief,  an  unutterable  relief,  when  I  reflected 
that  he  had  met  a  friend  to  watch  over  and 
guard  him  —  perhaps  to  make  him  again — Oh! 


92  DELIBERATION  ; 

I  dared  not  carry  that  thought  farther.  When 
Stewart  was  informed  of  the  result  of  his  friend's 
visit,  he  was  for  a  time  speechless  with  anguish 
ami  balhYd  will ;  for  hours  he  would  not  leave 
the  spot,  and  was  only  withheld  by  force  from 
coming  here  at  midnight.  At  last  mortification 
prevailed  over  all  other  feelings  ;  he  sent  me  a 
short  note  renouncing  me  for  ever,  and  thus 
made  his  selfishness  as  evident  as  it  was  most 
cruelly  ill-timed.  I  have  never  heard  from  him 
since  that  hour  !  I  have  been  informed,  within 
the  last  few  days,  that  he  is  dead.  My  name 
was  last  upon  his  lips  ;  he  still  loved  me,  and  I 
now  know  him  only  as  I  first  knew  him.  —  .My 
buried  love  !  we  may  yet  meet  in  another  world, 
wiser  and  better  fur  the  mistakes  and  sorrows  of 
this." 

44  Oh,  Mary !  that  I  should  know  nothing  of 
all  this  !  I,  who  have  so  often  thought  you  cold 
and  insensate !  Can  you  forgive  me,  and  let 
me  love  you  better  than  ever?  But  this 
friend  —  " 

44  Ay  ;  I  have  only  learned  by  accident  that, 
in  consequence  of  his  noble  conduct  towards 
me,  Stewart  and  himself  were  long  strangers, 
and  that  the  latter  lost  not  only  a  friend  but  a 
benefactor ;  for,  humble  as  were  Stewart's 
means,  he  had  still  been  able  to  assist  him  in 
severe  and  distressing  pecuniary  anxieties,  and 


OR,   THE    CHOICE.  93 

which  were  incalculably  enhanced  by  the  sud- 
den estrangement.  Whatever  benefits,  how- 
ever, he  had  received,  he  was  enabled  to  repay. 
Stewart  died  in  his  arms  ;  the  last  hour  of  life 
cheered  and  solaced  by  his  unwearied  affec- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  Mary  !  I  could  indeed  love  that  man." 

"  Art  sure  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart  and  soul !  —  that  is,  if 
he  loved  me." 

"  Here  then,  he  is  now  coming  towards  us." 

"  What,  Maxwell !  " 

"  Even  he." 

"  Oh  !  if  he  knew  my  recent  feelings,  he 
would  despise  me  now." 

"  Well,  shall  we  accept  this  Markham  ?  " 

"  No,  no  —  never  !  " 

"  Hush,  not  so  loud  —  Maxwell  will  hear  you. 
What  says  that  blush  ?  —  that  he  may  ?  He 
seems  agitated  ;  perhaps  he  guesses  what  Mark- 
ham  has  done  —  noticed,  perhaps,  your  agita- 
tion when  we  withdrew.  God  bless  you  then, 
my  dear  sister  !  —  you  are  worthy  even  of  him, 
the  worthiest  man  I  know." 

"  Oh,  no  !     Hush  !  don't  go  away." 

"  Pfaith,  a  good  hint.     Adieu  !  " 


94 


THE   VISIONARY. 

MY  heart  had  dreams  in  childhood's  hours, 
And  then  they  wen-  the  bright  and  gay, 

Their  hauntings  were  with  light  and  flowers, 
But  soon  their  brightness  passed  away. 

And  then  came  visions  darkly  wild, 
Dim  i         ,1  to  sec; 

Their  presence  sadder  thoughts  beguiled, 
And  dreams  became  a  home  to  me. 

But  now  they  glad  my  heart  no  more, 

Beneath  their  power  its  wings  are  bound  ; 

Those  dreamings,  like  the  clinging  flower, 
Have  withered  what  they  wreathed  around. 

The  heart  upon  whose  central  page 
The  spirit  Love  hath  set  his  seal, 

Where  shall  it  seek,  from  youth  to  age, 
An  image  that  its  death  can  fill  ? 

Amid  the  altars  called  his  own, 
What  sign  can  consecrate  a  sigh, 

Whose  incense  is  not  claimed  alone 
By  selfishness  and  vanity  ? 


THE    VISIONARY.  95 

The  world,  the  world,  the  human  world, 
The  darkened  stage  of  toil  and  strife, 

The  war- field  where  the  flag's  unfurled, 
Are  those  of  agony  and  life. 

Is  it  amid  this  jarring  scene 

The  heart  can  seek  or  find  its  home  ? 
Where  hate  and  suffering  have  been, 

Can  love  find  aught  except  a  tomb  ? 

But  earth  —  the  bright  and  changing  earth, 
Whose  very  strifes  are  harmony, 

Linked  even  from  his  spirit's  birth, 
With  all  of  man  that  cannot  die ; 

The  greenwood  shade,  the  river's  rush, 
The  gentle  flower — the  mighty  sea — 

Oh !  these  may  claim  the  purest  gush 
Of  the  heart's  vital  melody. 


96 


THE   MARCH    OP   LUXURY. 

ABOUT  thirty  years  ago  there  lived,  in  a 
retired  village  fifteen  miles  from  Glasgow,  a 
decent  farming  couple,  tolerably  well  to  do. 
They  were  pure  specimens  of  that  agricultural 
genus  which  flourished  in  abundance  b< 
steam  and  machinery  began  to  turn  the  world 
upside  down  —  sturdy,  honest,  blunt,  lii, 
woolsey  folks,  who  daily,  night  and  morning, 
performed  their  devotions,  ate  }i\\^>-  HH-SSI-S  of 
parritch,  and  never  missed  a  Sunday  at  tip- 
kirk.  They  had,  of  course,  a  large  family, 
stout  healthy  sons  and  dau«r:  .in  their 

infancy,  cut  i  t  ruusin;; 

their  parents  to  lose  a  win',  sand   as 

they  grew  up  flourished,  like  their  decent  fore- 
bears before  them,  on 

"Halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food." 

Various    circumstances    caused    the   honest 
farmer  to  feel  himself  getting  warmer  and  warm- 
he  advanced   in  years.     A  new  road   had 
been  cut  close  by  his  farm  ;  the  secluded  vil- 
lage began  to  be  more  frequented  ;  a  house  of 


THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY.  97 

"  entertainment  for  man  and  beast "  was  estab- 
lished in  it ;  increased  facility  of  communication 
with  such  a  market  as  Glasgow  presented 
led  to  more  frequent  intercourse  with  it,  douce 
Davie  himself  venturing  there  with  potatoes, 
meal,  and  even  sour  milk^  until  "  siller,"  whose 
clink  had  been  rather  unfrequent  in  his  ears 
during  his  young  days,  became  no  novelty  to 
him  :  though,  in  this  instance,  familiarity  did 
not  breed  contempt. 

But  though  every  neighbor  knew  that  Davie 
and  Phemie  were  a  comfortable  couple,  not  an 
outward  indication  betrayed  it.  Duly  did  they 
preside  at  the  head  of  Uieir  board  ;  men  and 
women,  boys  and  girls,  delving,  with  horn 
spoons,  in  wooden  noggins  heaped  to  the  brim 
with  smoking  parritch  or  sowetis.  Davie  was 
made  an  elder  of  the  kirk  ;  and  on  Sundays  his 
thoughtful  weather-beaten  face  might  be  reg- 
ularly seen,  as  he  stood  at  the  kirk-door  watch- 
ing over  the  plate :  for  be  it  known  to  you, 
reader,  at  the  entrance  of  Scottish  kirks  are 
placed  metal  plates  resting  upon  stools,  into 
which  the  worshippers,  as  they  enter,  chuck 
their  bawbees  for  behoof  of  the  poor.  Phemie 
and  the  bairns  were  sure  to  be  in  their  pew 
before  the  minister  entered  the  pulpit :  for 
though  clad  in  all  the  gorgeousiiess  of  a  scarlet 
duffle  (Anglice,  a  hooded  cloak  or  mantle),  such 
9 


98  THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY. 

an  idea  as  taking  care  to  be  late,  in  order  to 
attract  attention,  would  never  have  entered  into 
her  head.    Thus  they  went  on,  from  day  to  day. 
from  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month,  from 
to  year  ;  not  an  alteration  could  be  seen, 
nt  that  Davie  and  Phemie  began  to  look  as 
if  they  were  sliding  into  years,  and   their  chil- 
dren were  fast  shooting  up  from  "  laddies  "  and 
u  lassies  "  into  "  braw  "  men  and  women. 

"  Changes  are  lightsome  "  is  a  Scottish  say- 
ing, but  it  depends  much  on  the  nature  of  the 
changes  whether  they  are  so  or  not.  One  of 
the  boys  grew  restless  as  he  grew  up  ;  ho  got 
tired  of  the  monotony  of  his  country  life  ;  and 
having  got  hold  of  a  tattered  copy  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  he  preferred  it  mightily  to  the  cate- 
chism compiled  by  the  assembly  of  divines  at 
Westminster,  which  has  been  so  long  in  general 
use  in  Scotland.  Now  and  again  he  would  talk 
about  the  sea  ;  and  his  honest  father,  to  divert 
him  from  such  a  purpose,  would  turn  up  the  one 
hundred  and  seventh  psalm,  which  so  eloquently 
describes  the  dangers  of  those  who  "  go  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  do  business  in  great 
waters  ;"  how  when  the  storm  rises,  they  "  reel 
to  and  fro,  and  stagger  like  a  drunken  man,  and 
are  at  their  wit's  end."  But  though  this  might 
silence  the  recusant  landsman,  it  did  not  change 
his  rambling  resolution ;  he  was  not  a  fluent 


THE    MARCH   OF    LUXURY.  99 

debater,  and  when  pressed  home,  he  would  carry 
his  obstinacy  up  to  a  climax  —  "  Weel,  I'll  gang 
to  Glasgow,  and  list  for  a  sodger."  The  young 
rogue  soon  found  out  what  a  tremendous  influ- 
ence this  threat  had  upon  his  parents.  Probably 
neither  Davie  nor  Phemie  had  shed  a  tear  since 
they  passed  the  period  of  blubbering  infancy  ; 
but  the  threat  of  the  "  graceless  callant,"  that 
he  would  "  gang  and  list  for  a  sodger,"  would 
often  make  the  tear  start  to  their  eyes ;  and 
more  than  once,  the  good  old  souls,  on  retiring 
to  bed,  instead  of  going  off  sound  asleep,  and, 
as  the  Irishman  said,  "  paying  attention  to  it," 
as  in  all  their  past  lives  they  had  never  failed  to 
do,  would  lie  awake  and  cry  like  children  at  the 
idea  of  having  in  their  carefully-trained  house- 
hold a  "  black  sheep,"  who  seemed  likely  to 
bring  their  "  grey  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave." 

Jock  (or  to  give  him  the  somewhat  more  dig- 
nified appellation  of  Jack)  disappeared  one  day ; 
and  the  only  tidings  which  the  distressed  parents 
could  gather  about  him  were  some  vague  com- 
munications from  neighbors,  that  he  had  inti- 
mated his  intention  to  a  few  companions  of  never 
returning  again.  "  It's  a'  owre  wi'  Jock  noo," 
said  Davie  to  Phemie,  trying  to  look  stern  ; 
"  he's  gane  his  ain  gate  ;  he's  made  his  ain  bed, 
and  he  may  just  lie  doon  in  it."  But  Davie, 


100  THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY. 

when  lie  had  uttered  this  speech,  felt  something 
tugging  at  his  heart ;  he  tried  to  appear  uncon- 
.i-d,  but  it  would  not  do  ;  so,  in  a  choking 
kind  of  voice  he  exclaimed  vehemently  —  "The 
fitle  that  he  is  !  "  and  stalked  out  of  the  house 
as  if  he  were  in  high  dudgeon,  but  in  reality  to 
hide  that  struggling  parental  feeling  which  was 
melting  anger  into  sorrow.  As  for  Phemie,  she 
sighed,  said  nothing,  sat  down  on  a  little  stool, 
patted  the  floor  with  her  foot,  and  was  then 
obliged  to  take  off  her  spectacles,  and  wipe  the 
glasses,  bt  ith  tears. 

But  nothing  very  romantic  resulted  from 
Jock's  adventure.  lie  had  gone  to  Glasgow, 
and  had  met  with  a  shopkeeper,  who  dealt  with 
his  father  in  the  articles  of  meal,  potatoes,  and 
butter,  and  who,  from  h  nee  of  the  un- 

bending integrity  of  the  honest  old  man,  had 
contracted  a  warm  regard  for  him.  He  now 
showed  his  friendship  by  inducing  the  runagate 
to  reside  with  him  until  he  could  communicate 
with  his  father,  which  ho  did  without  loss  of 
time.  When  1  >uvio  got  the  news,  he  gave  a  kind 
of  grunting  "  Humph ! "  as  if  he  did  not  care 
a  button  where  his  son  was ;  but  he  set  about 
getting  horse  and  cart  ready,  and  he  and  Phemie 
on  the  road  for  Glasgow  in  about  an  hour 
afterwards.  The  old  couple  had  never  much  to 
say  to  each  other  at  any  time  ;  and  on  the  present 


THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY.  101 

occasion  they  probably  did  not  exchange  ten 
words  in  the  course  of  the  slow  journey  of 
fifteen  miles.  The  cart  at  last  rumbled  through 
one  or  two  of  the  streets  of  Glasgow,  and  finally 
stopped  opposite  a  shop  in  the  Gallowgate. 
Jock  saw  his  father  and  mother  arrive,  and  re- 
treated into  a  little  parlor,  into  which  they  were 
immediately  afterwards  ushered ;  and  here  the 
parents  and  son  sat  for  a  few  minutes  without  a 
word  of  recognition  proceeding  from  either 
side.  At  last  Davie  said,  —  u  Weel,  Jock,  what 
do  you  think  o'  yersel'  noo  ?  " 

"I  think  naething  ava,  father,"  replied  the 
youth,  doggedly ;  "  I  dinna  think  that  I  ha'e 
dune  muckle  that's  wrang." 

"  Ye're  a  neer-do-well  fellow,  that's  just  what 

ye  are — gin  I  had  ye  at  home,  I  would " 

break  your  back,  he  was  going  to  say ;  but  he 
wisely  checked  himself,  for  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  best  way  of  inducing  his  refractory  son 
to  return  home  was  not  by  threatening  prema- 
turely. 

The  afternoon  was  somewhat  advanced ;  and 
the  kind  shopkeeper  urged  this  as  a  reason  why 
the  old  people  should  become  his  guests  for  the 
night.  There  were,  however,  some  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  acceptation.  Phemie  had  never 
passed  a  night  out  of  her  parents'  or  her  hus- 
band's house,  and  there  seemed  a  kind  of 
9* 


lO'J  THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY. 

undefinable  strangeness,  amounting  almost  to 
fear,  at  the  idea  of  doing  so  now.  Davie  had  seen 
rather  more  of  the  world  than  that :  but  he  had 

r  spent  more  than  one  night  in  Glasgow  ; 
and  that  was  during  the  "fair,"  held  annually 
•  1  Msummer,  when  he  had  been  induced  to 
spend  such  a  large  sum  on  "  shows,"  and  pies 
and  porter,  as  to  have  left  a  blister  mark  on  his 
memory.  Davie  and  Phemie  were  at  last,  how- 

,  induced  to  stay;  an  opportunity  occurred, 
bv  which  the  family  at  home  would  be  made 
acquainted  that  night  with  the  cause  of  their  de- 
tention ;  and  so  the  old  couple  sat  down  contented 
for  the  evening. 

Tea  was  introduced.  Davie  had  only  tasted 
tea  once  before  during  his  lifetime  ;  and  that 
"  taste  "  induced  him  always  to  declare  that  he 
would  sooner  prefer  the  water  in  which  a  few 
straws  had  been  boiled.  But  he  was  now  in- 
duced to  try  tea  once  more ;  and  though  he 
handled  the  tiny,  elegant,  china  tea-cups,  not  as 
if  he  loved  them,  but  as  if  he  was  afraid  that 
they  would  slip  out  of  his  horny  hands,  and  get 

hed,  still  he  managed  to  drink  three  cups, 
and  was  graciously  pleased  to  say  that  the  stuff 

better  than  he  thought  it  was.  Phemie, 
/ike  a  discreet  woman,  drank  hers  in  matronly 
silence ;  carefully  watching  her  female  com- 
panions, and  endeavoring,  as  well  as  she  could, 


THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY.  103 

to  brandish  her  crockery  after  their  approved 
fashion. 

The  shop  was  shut ;  and  now  —  the  first  time 
in  a  long  series  of  years  —  did  douce  Davie 
spend  an  evening  without  a  supper  of  parritch. 
The  Scotch  are  not  a  supper-eating  race,  in  the 
English,  or,  perhaps,  more  strictly  speaking,  the 
London  sense  of  the  word  "  supper."  But,  at 
the  time  our  story  Zies,  the  snug  folks  of  Glas- 
gow were  not  indifferent  (and  the  habit  has  cer- 
lainly  not  abated)  to  the  comfort  of  rounding 
off  their  evenings  with  "just"  a  crust  of  bread 
and  cheese,  accompanied  by  a  bottle  of  porter, 
or  a  glass  of  "  toddy  ; "  and  therefore  our  friend, 
the  shopkeeper,  amongst  other  comforts,  had 
adopted  this  comfort  in  particular.  So,  by-and- 
by,  douce  Davie  and  quiet  Phemie  witnessed  in 
silence  the  placing  of  the  china  punch-bowl  on 
the  table,  and  the  display  of  the  pretty-looking 
cut  glass  ;  they  had  seen  the  like  before  at  their 
minister's,  but  had  always  been  of  the  opinion 
that  a  godly  man  might  dispense  with  such 
superfluity;  as  for  themselves  —  "  Gude  forgive 
them  !  " —  they  would  just  as  soon  think  of  fly- 
ing in  the  face  of  Providence,  as  bring  the 
glittering  temptations  within  their  walls.  But  a 
"Welsh  rabbit,"  and  one  or  two  glasses  of 
"toddy,"  had  a  most  powerful  effect  on  Davic's 
'aciturnity  ;  and  he  was  soon  in  a  condition  to 


104  THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY. 

listen  to  his  friend  the  shopkeeper's  proposal, 
which  was,  that  Jock  should  stay  with  him,  and 
learn  the  art  and  mystery  of  selling  butter, 
I,  eggs,  and  potatoes,  by  retail.  Jock  had 
already  given  his  joyful  assent;  for  a  residence 
in  Glasgow,  without  danger,  seemed  to  him,  on 
the  whole,  not  a  bad  substitute  for  a  perilous 
post  on  the  salt  seas.  The  old  man's  consent 
was  at  last  obtained  ;  and  Phemie  quickly  added 
hers.  Another  bowl  of  punch,  or  rather 
"  toddy,"  was  proposed  to  be  made,  to  crown  the 
success  of  the  scheme :  "  Na,  na,"  said  the 
honest,  resolute  old  man,  "  let  us  ha'e  the  books 
first,"  and  when  family  worship  was  over,  he 
and  Phemie  retired. 

Next  morning  they  were  up  betimes :  break- 
was  soon  over;  Jock  was  installed  ;  and  his 
parents  were  soon  jogging  homewards.  Davie's 
emotions  were  those  of  a  quiet  kind  of  thank- 
fulness that  his  son  was  in  good  hands.  But 
Phemie,  now  that  all  was  right  with  Jock,  was 
brooding  upon  other  thoughts.  She  was  not 
naturally  a  narrow-minded  woman  :  but  having 
spent  her  youth  under  the  humble  roof  of  her 
parents ;  and  from  thence,  having  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  then  as  humble  roof  of  her  nus- 
band,  she  walked  in  his  footsteps,  with  scarcely 
an  idea  beyond  her  earthen  kitchen  floor.  But 
it  so  happened,  that  in  her  youth  she  had  been 


THEt  MARCH  OF  LUXURY.        105 

a  companion  of  the  shopkeeper's  wife,  and  who, 
from  being  a  Glasgow  servant,  had  risen  to  be  a 
comfortable  shopmistress.  Phemie  was  now 
contrasting  her  own  appearance  with  that  of  her 
once  youthful  companion.  Her  imagination, 
whose  wings  had  been  bound,  now  made  some 
fluttering  attempts  to  fly  —  the  tea,  the  china, 
the  cut  glass,  the  punch-bowl,  and  "  knobs  in 
the  lobby  for  hanging  the  hats  on,"  all  struck 
her  as  marvellous  nice  enjoyments  and  con- 
veniences. She  had  seen  some  of  the  young- 
sters of  the  family  enter,  and  hang  up  their 
hats  so  "  manfully "  on  these  all-interesting 
"  knobs ; "  and  the  idea  hooked  her  fancy. 
Thus  did  she  muse  during  her  journey,  leaving 
Davie  to  his  own  reflections. 

We  must  now,  as  the  scene-shifters  say,  sup- 
pose a  period  to  have  elapsed  between  what  has 
passed  and  what  is  to  come.  Jock,  who  was 
not  deficient  in  sense,  gradually  shook  off  his 
country  loutishness,  and  exhibited  appearances 
as  if  he  was  capable  of  receiving  a  Glasgow 
polish.  He  paid  one  or  two  visits  to  home,  and 
then  the  strong  contrast  between  his  father's  and 
hrs  master's  house  became  too  obvious  for  him 
to  hold  his  tongue.  His  family,  also,  remarked 
that  Jock  was  becoming  somewhat  of  a  com- 
parative gentleman ;  they  began  gradually  to 
be  proud  of  him,  and  to  listen  to  him  as  an 


106  THE    MARCH    OF   LUXURY. 

oracle.  He  used  to  suggest  alterations  and  im- 
provements in  the  domestic  concerns ;  and  his 
mother,  who  had  never  forgot  the  "  knobs,'* 
would  tolerate  all  his  reforming  talk,  merely  try- 
ing to  silence  him,  now  and  again,  with  "  Hoot 
awa,  ye  daft  fallow!"  But,  still,  nobody  ven- 
tured to  insinuate  any  destructive  projects  to  the 
old  man. 

One  of  Jock's  sisters  was  invited  to  spend  a 
few  days  in  Glasgow ;  and  she  returned,  not 
only  with  a  very  lively  impression  of  the  con- 
nee  of  "  knobs  in  the  lobby,"  but  actually 
with  —  a  pound  of  tea !  How  to  break  this  fact 
to  the  old  man  was  a  puzzle.  The  female  por- 
tion of  the  household  at  last  entered  into  a  regu- 
lar conspiracy  to  brave  his  anger  :  unknown  to 
him,  the  minister,  and  tho  minister's  wife  and 
daughter  were  invited,  tea-cups  were  borrowed, 
and  Davie,  on  his  return  from  the  field,  was 
rather  startled  at  the  scene.  He  appeared, 
however,  to  take  it  very  good-humoredly ;  and 
condescended  to  honor  his  guests  by  partaking 
of  the  tea ;  but,  scorning  to  drink  it  in  his  own 
house  out  of  a  borrowed  vessel,  it  was  served  up 
to  him  in  a  brown  earthen-ware  basin,  and  he 
supped  it  with  a  horn  spoon.  Phemie  was  afraid 
of  the  consequences  of  leaving  her  husband  in 
solitary  singularity,  so  she  caused  her  tea  to  be 
served  up  in  like  manner,  the  daughter  being 


THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY  107 

mistress  of  the  ceremonies,  and  the  spectacle  of 
the  two  old  folks  sipping  away  with  horn  spoons 
was,  perhaps,  as  funny  an  affair  as  ever  occurred 
in  the  annals  of  tea-drinking. 

The  ice  was  broken ;  tea  was  fairly  intro- 
duced into  the  household ;  the  old  man,  with  a 
little  grumbling,  consented  to  pay  for  a  tea- 
service  ;  and  Phemie,  who  soon  found  out  that 
the  constant  use  of  parritch  gave  both  herself 
and  daughters  the  heartburn,  gradually  estab- 
lished the  habitual  use  of  tea  for  the  female  por- 
tion of  the  family,  and  occasionally  for  the 
men,  such  as  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  The 
change  produced  was  amazing.  The  old  man 
was  confounded  one  day  by  being  told  that  John 
was  coming  to  visit  them  on  the  following  day. 
"  Do  ye  mean  Jock  ?  "  said  he.  Yet,  even  as 
he  spoke,  the  difference  between  Jock  and  John 
struck  on  his  own  dull  ear.  He  said  nothing ; 
but  when  Jock  arrived,  the  whole  family  were 
delighted  by  the  visible  evidence  the  old  man 
gave  of  being  fairly  on  the  road  to  refinement — 
for,  though  yet  unable  to  say  JoAn,  he  hailed 
his  son  cordially  —  "  Weel,  Johnnie,  hoo  are  ye 
the  day?" 

Some  time  after,  a  strange  rumor  ran  through 
the  village,  that  douce  Davie  was  about  to  pull 
down  his  old  thatch-covered  house,  and  to  build 


108-  THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY. 

a  snug  slated  habitation  in  its  stead.  Wl  erever 
two  or  three  women  could  be  gathered  together, 
the  subject  was  discussed.  One  pious  lady 
thought  she  saw  a  fulfilment  of  that  partible 
which  speaks  about  the  fool  whose  soul  was 
required  of  him,  whea  he  pulled  down  his 
barns,  and  bui:  Another  was  eager  to 

impress  her  auditors  with  a  due  sense  of  her 
far-seeing  or  prophetic  powers,  repeatedly 
•filming,  tkMi  dM  had  predicted  all  this  from 
tlx-  moment  she  heard  that  tea  had  been  intro- 
duced into  -.-.  A  third  remarked  how 
nice  and  fine  the  daugh;.  r-  \\<  :  .  and 
how  thirl:  they  had  become  with  the  mini^ 

uid  daughter  —  even  Joek  himself,  whom 
emembcred  as  a  dirty,  barefooted  boy,  was 
becoming  quite  a  braw  young  gentleman. 
"  \Vheest.  w|jee<t  !  "  says  a  fourth,  with  a  satir- 
ical lowering  of  the  tone  of  her  voice  ;  "  it's  no 
Jock  noo,  na,  na  !  naething  will  serve  their  turn 
but  Mister  John  !  "  "Ay,"  chimed  in  a  fifth, 
u  the  auld  fule  gets  nae  ither  name,  even  frae 
Phemie,  but  Daavid  !  —  what  do  ye  think  o1 
that !  "  "  See  till  him,  see  till  him ! "  screamed 
out  a  sixth,  and,  sure  enough,  in  the  direction 
of  her  pointed  finger,  douce  Davie  was  seen 
approaching  in  all  the  dignity  of  a  new  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  and  —  top  boots  !  The  very  chil- 


THE    MARCH    OF    LUXURY.  109 

dren  ran  to  the  doors,  to  gaze  on  the  spectacle. 
"  Gude  e'en  to  ye,"  said  one  of  the  more  for- 
ward of  the  women,  and  Davie,  returning  the 
salutation,  inquired  after  her  health,  and  that  of 
her  companions,  with  their  respective  families. 
While  he  stood  talking  with  them,  the  women 
seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  in  showing  him 
an  unusual  degree  of  respectful  attention :  but 
the  moment  he  set  forward  in  his  homeward 
walk,  a  tittering  ran  through  the  group,  one 
malicious  creature  hoping  he  was  not  touched 
in  the  head,  and  another,  "  willing  to  wound, 
but  yet  afraid  to  strike,"  devoutly  trusted  that 
all  was  right  with  the  "  siller "  that  was  gath- 
ered at  the  kirk-door  for  the  poor. 

Davie's  slated  house  soon  arose,  at  a  short  dis- 
tance from  his  old  cottage  ;  some  nice  furniture 
was  brought  out  from  Glasgow  to  adorn  it ;  and 
Jock  —  we  beg  pardon,  Mr.  John  —  now  felt 
that  he  could  introduce  Glasgow  companions  to 
see  the  modest  decency  of  his  father's  house. 
The  old  man  himself  began  to  stir  with  ambi- 
tious projects.  In  conjunction  with  a  Glasgow 
manufacturer,  he  built  a  row  of  cottages,  and 
introduced  into  the  village  the  sound  of  the  loom. 
An  entire  change  came  over  the  aspect  of  the 
place.  Davie's  example  was  imitated,  not  in- 
deed by  the  old  residents,  whom  the  alterations 
10 


110  THE    MAKCH    OF    LUXURY. 

annoyed,  but  by  many  of  the  more  modern  in- 
truders —  the  "  incomers,"  as  they  were  con- 
temptuously styled  —  by  those  who  thought  they 
had  a  patent  right  to  the  exclusive  possession  ot 
the  place.  One  of  Davie's  younger  daughters, 
who  had  been  sent  to  a  Glasgow  school,  re- 
turned, and  brought  a  piano-forte  with  her, 
though,  it  must  be  confessed,  if  it  had  been  put 
to  Davie  whether  or  not  it  was  only  a  piano- 
twenty,  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  answer 
the  question.  The  old  minister  of  the  parish 
was  removed  to  a  better  living,  and  the  new 
minister,  a  young  bachelor,  married  Davie's 
eldest  daughter.  John,  who  had  started  into 
business,  drove  his  own  gig.  And  Davie  him- 
self, booted  and  spurred,  might  be  seen  jugging 
through  the  main  street  of  the  village  on  a  sleek 
mare  :  had  all  this  been  held  up  to  him  in  vis- 
ion a  few  years  before,  he  would  have  started 
back,  and  exclaimed,  "Am  I  a  dog,  that  I 
should  do  such  a  thing  I'11 

But  there  is  an  end  of  all  things  ;  and  there 
was  an  end  of  Davie  and  Phemie.  He  died 
first,  fairly  and  properly  dividing  his  worldly 
goods  amongst  his  descendants  ;  and  Phemie 
went  to  live  with  her  son-in-law  the  minister. 
John  came  to  London,  leaving  his  Glasgow  busi- 
ness to  a  younger  brother.  Here  he  has  ever 


THE    MARCH   OF    LUXURY.  1H 

since  flourished  ;    is  a  wealthy  ship-owner,  an 
influential  director  in  more  than  one  company, 

wears  civic  honors,  and  reposes  at  night oh' 

that  the  ghost  of  his  father  could  see  it!— on 
a  china-posted  bedstead. 


112 


THE   BEAUTIFUL,   THE    GOOD, 
AND   THE   TRUE. 

BY     JOHN     PATCH,     ESQ. 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  !  —  seek  ye  the  prize 
In  fairy  scenes  and  houris'  eyes  ; 
In  virtuous  woman,  lovely  as  a  star  ?  — • 
Deluded  one  !  seek  it  not  there. 

Dost  thou  hope  to  paint  the  rose, 

Wet  with  morning  dew  ? 
To  emulate,  with  artist  hand, 
The  rainbow's  irised  hue  ? 
To  cage  the  thrilling  notes  that  fire 
The  soul,  when  music  wakes  the  lyre  ? 

Rival  Nature  wouldst  thou,  rash  one  ? 

Make  a  grain  of  sand  !  — 
Paint  the  poet's  dreams  elysian 

Of  the  spirit-land ! 

The  Beautiful !  —  it  lies  within  thine  own  con- 
trol— 

Seek  earnestly,  and  thou  shalt  find  it  in  thy 
soul. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL,  GOOD,  AND  TRUE.    113 

The  Good !  —  how  dare  we  name  it  in  these 

days, 
When    sectaries    monopoly    in    goodness 

claim  ? 
Our  noblest  deeds  —  how  faulty,  blind,  and 

lame, 
If    not    accordant    with    their    righteous 

ways ! 
The    Good!  —  what    is    it  —  substance    or    a 

shade, 

That  man  should  so  debase  what  God  so  perfect 
made  ? 


To  feed  the  hungry,  clothe  the  naked, 

And  forgive  an  erring  brother,  — 
This  we  know  is  not  a  shadow  ; 

For  'twas  taught  us  by  our  mothei, 
When  we  sat  upon  her  knee, 
And  sang  our  own  sweet  lullaby. 


The  Good !  —  it  is  an  auction  chattel  — 

He  who  bids  the  highest  gets  it  — 
Fame  is  loudest  in  the  praise 

Of  the  purchaser  who  pays  ; 
And  'tis  set  to  his  account 
Who  gives  in  current   gold   the   largest  cash 
amount. 
10* 


114   THE  BEAUTIFUL,  GOOD,  AND  TRUE. 

The  True  !  —  God's   portrait !  —  symbol  of 

the  Holy  !  — 

The  holiest  of  holies  is  its  shrine  — 
Found  oftenest  in  the  bosoms  of  the  lowly, 

Like  diamonds  secreted  in  the  mine  : 
To  its  attainment  dost  thy  soul  aspire  ? 
Look  higher  —  and  still  higher. 


Look  upward  —  press  onward  — 

Loiter  not  upon  the  way  ; 
When  ihou  standest  on  Truth's  summit, 

Thou  shalt  view  a  boundless  sea, 
And  thy  soul  in  that  high  heaven  of  fruition 
SHALL  BE  FREE  ! 


115 


COMMON   EVENTS. 

DURING  two  years  of  a  delicious  portion  of 
my  life,  my  leisure  was  devoted  to  her  whose 
life  is  now  devoted  to  mine.  Three  or  four 
evenings  each  week,  and  every  Sunday,  were 
considered  as  sacred  to  each  other  :  we  walked, 
talked,  laughed,  and  whispered  in  perfect  unison ; 
went  to  church  regularly, and  returned, comment- 
ing on  the  services  of  the  day.  Reposing  in  one 
another  mutual  and  entire  confidence,  and  look- 
ing forward  to  a  "  common  event "  as  the  nat- 
ural termination  of  our  present  attachment,  we 
had  no  "  lovers'  quarrels,"  no  fears,  no  jeal- 
ousies ;  the  course  of  our  "  true  love  "  was  as 
smooth  as  the  surface  of  a  placid  lake  on  a 
Bummer's  eve. 

There  was  but  one  circumstance  which  threw 
a  bitter  into  my  gentle  girl's  cup  of  happiness, 
and  disturbed  the  serenity  of  her  temper.  In 
going  and  coming,  we  had  t6  pass  a  house 
which  contained  a  large  family  of  grown-up 
daughters,  and  these  had  the  idle  habit  of  per- 
petually staring  out  from  their  parlor  window 
into  a  quiet  little  street,  whose  chief  eventi 
were  the  passing  of  the  baker,  the  butcher,  the 


116  COMMON    EVENTS. 

beggar,  or  the  ballad-singer.  We,  cf  course, 
were  conspicuous  objects  for  the  "  broad  stares" 
of  what  the  Scotch  call  "  tawpies,"  an  ex- 
pressive word  for  idle,  hoyden  girls  ;  and  as  the 
window  was  scarcely  ever  without  a  sentinel,  our 
approach  was  telegraphed  ;  "  along  the  line  the 
signal  ran,"  and  some  seven  or  eight  heads 
were  presently  seen  bobbing  over  one  another, 
like  fish  leaping  in  the  water.  Nothing  annoyed 
my  companion  more  than  to  have  regularly  to 
run  the  gauntlet  of  observation  from  these  "  idle 
creatures,"  as  she  rather  bitterly  termed  them. 
She  could  not  change  a  ribbon  on  her  bonnet,  or 
alter  a  boot-lace,  without  its  being  carefully 
noted.  I  knew,  also,  that  I  was  diligently  scru- 
tinized by  these  diligent  observers,  who  "  read 
off,"  as  the  astronomers  say,  my  air,  aspect, 
height,  walk,  complexion,  dress,  &c.,  &c.,  not 
without  an  occasional  sneering  comparison  (what 
an  abominable  thing  it  is  for  a  young  woman 
to  sneer  !  —  the  almost  unfailing  indication  of  a 
selfish  disposition),  but  I  did  not  mind  it  —  or 
rather  I  liked  the  "joke."  A  coarse  or  a  com- 
mon mind  would  have  enjoyed  the  triumph  of 
having  an  attentive  "  bachelor"  to  parade  regu- 
larly before  half-a-dozen  damsels,  not  one  of 
whom  could  boast  that  a  "  bachelor  "  ever  en- 
tered their  door ;  but  Eliza  held  the  faith  that 
all  young  women  should  be  married,  and 


COMMON    EVENTS.  117 

comfortably  married  loo ;  and  therefore  she 
shrank  from  provoking  envy,  where  no  envy 
should  exist.  Passing  this,  however,  I  may  re- 
peat that  these  girls  were  almost  the  only 
troublers  of  our  quiet  and  happy  courtship  :  but 
so  sensitive  was  Eliza,  that,  as  there  was  no 
other  way  of  getting  out  of  the  street  than  by 
passing  the  window  of  the  "  tawpies,"  we  have 
frequently  sat  till  it  was  dark,  and  thereby  lost 
our  evening's  walk,  rather  than  go  out  in  day- 
light and  pass  under  the  ordeal  of  observation. 
The  wedding-day  was  fixed,  and  time  flew 
on.  We  were  a  u  sensible "  couple,  and  re- 
solved that  our  wedding  should  be  sober  and 
sedate  —  a  quiet  breakfast  with  a  few  choice 
friends  after  the  important  ceremony,  and  a  still 
quieter  excursion.  In  fact,  being  so  very  "  sen- 
sible," our  imaginations  vaulted  beyond  the 
wedding-day,  and  sketched  out  our  future  do- 
mestic felicity.  Eliza  wanted  a  nice  little  cot- 
tage "  out  of  town,"  where,  at  the  garden-gate, 
on  summer  evenings,  she  would  watch  for  me 
as  I  returned  fatigued  from  business ;  and  I,  on 
my  part,  saw  my  own  dear  wife,  the  u  light  and 
life  "  of  my  existence,  moving  about  rny  own 
house,  more  as  an  angel  than  a  woman,  and 
making  my  fireside  radiant.  Nay,  we  specu- 
lated, too,  about  our  prospective  family ;  and 
though  Eliza  blushed,  and  smiled  and  laughed, 


118  COMMON    KV'KNTS. 

her  imagination  had  already  dressed  up  three 
or  four  delightful  little  creatures  with  "  golden  " 
.  clear  complexions,  sparkling  eyes,  and 
loud,  ringing,  merry  voices.  Then  we  shook 
our  heads  about  the  awful  responsibility  of  a 
family  ;  and  we  laid  down  plans  about  how  they 
were  to  be  brought  up,  educated,  and  provided 
for ;  and  we  resolved  to  be  economical  in  our 
expenses,  correct  in  our  deportment,  and  exact 
in  all  our  doings  —  our  prospective  children 
were  to  become  little  models  for  the  human 
race.  What  a  deal  of  romance  there  is  in  the 
hearts  of  a  fond  young  couple,  to  be  gradually 
dissipated  by  broken  china  bowls,  smashed  toys, 
and  a  number  of  little  et  ceteras,  "  too  numer- 
ous to  mention  !  " 


About  three  o'clock  on  a  dark,  dreary,  stormy 
November  morning,  I  was  suddenly  roused  out 
of  a  profound  sleep  by  somebody  shaking  my 
shoulder  and  flaring  a  candle  in  my  face. 
When  very  fatigued,  as  was  the  case  on  the 
present  occasion,  I  am,  like  some  wild  animals, 
difficult  to  be  awakened,  and  usually  stare  in 
I »<  \\ilderment  before  comprehension  exerts  its 
influence.  "You  did  not  hear  me,"  said  a 
voice  ;  "  I  knocked  first  at  the  door,  and  then 


COMMON    EVENTS.  119 

made  bold  to  enter.     You  had  better  get  up,  sir, 
for  mistress  is  becoming  very  bad." 

The  words  of  the  summons  were  very  indis- 
tinctly heard,  but  I  knew  the  cause ;  so  I 
drawled  out,  "  Ye-es,  I'll  get  up,  immediately." 
So  saying,  I  sank  back  in  the  bed,  and  was  in 
an  instant  once  more  in  a  sound  sleep. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  slept  five  minutes  or 
an  hour,  but  I  was  startled  by  a  sharp  clicking, 
caused  by  the  sudden  turning  of  the  handle  of 
the  door,  and  the  hasty  reentry  of  my  disturber. 
"  Oh,  sir,  you  must  get  up,  you  must  indeed  ! 
I'll  leave  the  candle,  sir,  but  you  must  be  smart." 

The  voice  was  the  voice  of  one  of  a  privi 
leged  class,  who,  like  the  fools  of  the  ancient 
time,  sometimes  presume  on  their  prerogative. 
There  was  no  time,  however,  for  ceremony  on 
the  present  occasion.  "  Yes,  nurse,"  I  replied, 
"  I'll  be  up  instantly ; "  and  as  at  that  moment 
a  moan  struck  on  my  ear,  proceeding  from  the 
adjoining  bed-room,  my  heart  spoke  to  my 
heels; — I  was  on  the  floor  and  dressed  in  a 
minute. 

The  wind  blew  in  gusts,  the  windows  danced 
in  their  frames,  and  the  rain  splashed  against 
the  glass.  My  poor  wife  tried  to  hide  her  agony, 
and  apologized  for  raising  me,  though  the  apol- 
ogy was  interrupted  by  a  scream.  "  Oh,  my 
dear,  I  am  so  sorry  —  but  nurse  thinks  the  doctor 


120  COMMON    EVENTS. 

should  be  sent  for."  The  house  shook,  at 
that  moment,  to  the  very  foundations.  "  Really, 
William,  I  cannot  think  of  letting  you  go  out  — 
you'll  be  killed  by  the  falling  of  some  chimney- 
top —  send  Mary.1' 

Now,  I  had  no  particular  fancy  for  going  out ; 
but  to  let  the  girl  go  rather  jarred  with  my  sel- 
fishness. "No,  no,  my  dear,  you'll  require 
.Mary  yourself — I  wont  be  many  minutes." 

"  Well,  William,  wrap  yourself  up  ;  take  care 
of  yourself.  Nurse,  go  down  and  help  him  on 
with  his  great-coat  —  William,  take  care  — 
oh ! " 

"  Poor  dear  soul !  "  said  1  to  myself,  as  I 
went  out ;  "  thinking  of  me  in  the  midst  of  her 
own  suffering.  Well,  after  all,  the  women  are 
a  good  set  —  I  hope  my  poor  wife  will  get  well 
over  it ! " 

In  about  ten  minutes  I  was  standing  at  the 
door  of  a  corner  house,  with  my  hand  on  the 
brass  handle  of  a  bell-pull,  round  which  were 
engraved  the  words  "  Night  Bell."  It  answer- 
ed my  rather  vigorous  pull  with  a  loud  and  long- 
continued  reverberation.  Meantime  I  tried  to 
shelter  myself  within  the  doorway,  for  the  wind 
howled  round  me,  and  the  rain  battered  and 
slashed  at  me,  as  if  it  were  glad  to  get  a  soli- 
tary victim  who  could  feel  its  violence.  No- 
body came.  I  rang  again.  Nobody  answered. 


COMMON    EVENTS.  121 

The  interval  might  be  five  minutes,  but  at  that 
moment  I  could  have  sworn  in  a  court  of  justice 
that  I  had  stood  there  half  the  night.  I  pulled 
the  third  time,  and  the  bell  seemed  destined  to 
ring  for  ever,  while  I  made  the  knocker  do  the 
"'t«rk  of  a  sledge-hammer.  At  last  a  footstep 
shuffled  along  the  passage  ;  the  door-chain  rat- 
tled ;  the  bolts  were  withdrawn ;  the  ke;'  was 
turned,  and  a  head,  the  front  of  which  must 
have  weighed  heavy  from  the  profusion  of  its 
papers,  projected,  like  the  Irishman's  gun, 
u  round  the  corner." 

"Rouse  up  Dr.  Nugent — tell  him  /  want 
him." 

"Oh,  sir,  he's  out — but  he  left  word  he 
should  be  sent  for.  Are  you  from  Angel-place, 
sir?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  —  where  is  the  doctor  ?  I 
will  go  for  him  myself." 

"At  No.  20,  Manchester  Terrace — just  turn 
round,  and  " 

The  rest  of  the  direction  might  or  might  not 
have  been  given.  I  knew  whereabouts  Man- 
chester Terrace  lay,  so  off  1  ran,  at  full  gallop, 
facing  wind  and  rain. 

Arrived  at  the  terrace,  I  saw  a  long  row  of 

houses,  every  door  alike,  every  knocker  alike, 

and  every  area  alike.     I  began  to  doubt  whether 

or  not  it  were  twenty  or  thirty  I  had  to  call  at, 

11 


2  COMMON    EVENTS. 

and  I  paused  to  consider.  The  wind  drove  me 
onwards,  and  I  began  to  get  angry  with  myself; 
my  anger  only  confused  my  recollection  the 
more.  I  was  now  uncertain  whether  it  might 
not  be  thirty-six,  or  forty-six,  or  fifty-six.  "  Drat 
babies,  doctors,  nurses,  and  all !  "  I  exclaimed  ; 
•it  the  plague  brings  me  here  ?  "  I  looked 
upwards  to  see  if  I  could  discern  any  symptoms 
of  bustle,  or  any  glimmering  indications  that 
human  beings  wrr<«  watching  the  agonies  of  hu- 
man beings.  Every  window  and  every  house 
seemed  dark  and  silent  as  the  grave.  I  now 
looked  round  for  the  watchman,  or  for  anybody 
who  by  instinct  or  observation  mi^ht  help  me 
to  detect  the  presence  of  a  doctor  in  some  one 
of  the  u  uniformities  "  of  Manchester  Terrace. 
Not  a  living  soul  could  I  see.  I  knocked  at 
thirty-six  —  no  answer.  I  knocked  at  forty-six 
—  the  same  result.  In  a  passion  I  knocked  and 
rang  at  fifty-six,  and  presently  high  above-head 
I  heard  the  whistling  sound  of  a  window  thrown 
up,  and  a  deep  voice  called  out,  "  Well,  sir, 
what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  am  afraid  I 
am  mistaken,  but  I  thought  Doctor  Nugent  was 
here." 

"  No  !  "  thundered  the  voice,  and  the  window 
thundered  down  after  it. 

Drenched  with  rain,  and  out  of  humor  with 


COMMON    EVENTS.  123 

myself,  I  blamed  the  flickering  lamps  for  making 
me  forget  the  number,  and  then  resolved  to  run 
back  and  give  the  doctor's  servant  a  good 
"  blowing-up,"  which  she  would  remember  for 
some  time.  Turning  the  corner,  I  came  in 
rather  violent  contact  with  a  man  wrapped  in 
a  cloak,  and  could  have  throttled  him.  Shame, 
however,  succeeded  to  wrath  when  I  discov- 
ered in  my  antagonist  the  "  Doctor  "  I  was  in 
search  of. 

"  Oh,  doctor,"  said  I,  "  this  is  lucky  —  1 
have  been  seeking  for  you  like  a  fool,  up  and 
down  here.  Come  along." 

We  walked  for  a  little  way  in  silence,  for 
the  doctor  was  a  thoughtful  man  and  had  left 
a  death-bed.  I  should  talk,  however.  "  Well, 
now,  doctor,  this  circumstance  of  strangers 
coming  home  in  the  night-time  is  not  very 
pleasant.  I  am  rather  out  of  humor  with  the 
joke." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  doctor,  "  your  wife  at  home 
thinks  it  no  joke,  and  I  fancy  she  has  the 
worst  of  the  bargain.  Do  you  not  think,  now, 
that  if  your  safety,  or  even  your  comfort  re- 
quired it,  she  would  go  out  for  you,  if  it  were 
raining  cats  and  dogs  ?  " 

I  need  not  record  my  answer,  nor  tell 
whether  it  were  in  the  affirmative  or  nega- 
tive. We  shortly  arrived  at  home ;  I  went 


1'Jl  COMMON     KVENTS. 

down  stairs*  to  dry  myself  at  the  kitchen  fire, 
and  the  doctor  went  up  stairs  to  —  his  patient 
I  \v;is  iiuin^  to  say,  but  that  is  not  exactly 
tlu-  \vord. 

By-and-by,  down  came  the  nurse,  her  looks 
full  of  importance,  but  struggling  to  maintain 
ht  r  professional  equanimity.  A  few  orders  >vt  it- 
given  to  Mary,  and  Mary  flew  like  a  mad-cap, 
evincing  by  her  excited  manner  how  highly  she 
estimated  the  honor  of  even  a  very  humble  share 
in  the  important  proceedings.  Then,  approach- 
ing the  fire,  where  I  was  standing,  nur>r  mut- 
tered a  "  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  in  a  tone  which 
seemed  to  insinuate  that  I  ought  to  beg  her  par- 
don and  get  out  of  the  way.  I  never  felt  so 
insignificant  in  my  life. 

Left  for  some  time  to  myself,  I  became  un- 
easy, and  went  on  the  stairs  to  listen  if  "  any- 
body were  coming."  I  heard  the  bed-room 
door  open,  and  presently  a  shrill  scream  an- 
nounced the  important  fact  that  I  was  a  papa, 
and  the  father  of  a  child  blessed  with  excellent 
lungs. 

Mary  now  descended,  her  face  as  round  and 
as  full  as  the  moon,  and  "  wreathed  with  smiles." 
"I  wish  you  much  joy,  sir;  you  have  got  a 
son."  "  Indeed,  I  am  glad  it  is  a  boy." 
••  Well  then,  sir,  it  is  as  pretty  a  baby  as  I  have 
seen  this  many  a  day."  I  gave  Mary  half-a- 


COMMON    EVENTS. 


125 


crown.  "  Thank  you,  sir  —  well,  I'm  sure 
you  will  quite  doat  on  the  little  dear  —  it's  a 
fine  baby,  sir,  and  so  large  !  " 

The  size  of  a  baby  is  an  essential  ingredient 
in  its  value.  So  think  the  women ;  and,  reader, 
if  you  ever  visit  on  such  an  occasion,  beware 
how  you  drop  a  syllable  about  the  little  thing 
being  little,  even  if  you  should  think  it  could 
be  immersed  in  a  pint  vessel. 

Up  went  Mary ;  and  down  she  came  again, 
to  desire  me  to  walk  up  to  see  my  son.  At  the 
door  the  doctor  met  me,  and  we  shook  hands ; 
and  the  nurse,  sitting  in  all  the  glory  of  her 
state,  called  on  me  to  come  over  and  see  what 
a  fine  little  fellow  he  was.  But  I  went  to  the 
mother  first ;  kissed  her,  and  she  looked  up  in 
my  face  with  such  an  aspect  of  triumphant  af- 
fection, that  I  loved  her  more  than  ever.  Then 
I  went  to  visit  my  son.  "Take  him  in  your 
arms,  sir,"  said  the  nurse  ;  "  isn't  he  a  glorious 
little  fellow  ? " 

I  had  never  in  my  life  seen  a  new-born  baby. 
I  was  the  youngest  of  my  father's  family,  and 
circumstances  so  happened  that  I  had  never  seen 
a  child  younger  than  three  weeks  or  a  month 
old.  I  now  felt  shocked.  Had  it  been  any  other 
person's  child,  I  could  have  philosophised  on  the 
matter ;  but  my  child — my  first-born — the  child 
11* 


-  COMMON    EVENTS. 

of  her  whom  I  had  loved  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
youth,  and  no\v  with  all  the  graver  yet  stronger 
attachment  of  a  man — it  was  shocking — horrible. 
The  little  thing  seemed  so  very  little,  measured 
by  my  usual  habits  of  comparison,  —  it  seemed 
so  helpless,  so  miserable,  and  —  the  skin  of  its 
face  hanging  loosely  —  so  like  a  little  old  man, 
and  therefore  so  ugly  —  that  I  involuntarily 
turned  away. 

"  Well  now,1'  exclaimed  the  nurse,  who  had 
marked  the  expression  of  my  countenance, 
11  what's  the  matter  with  master  ?  Isn't  it  a 
pretty  little  dear  ?  " 

44  No  ! "  I  replied  rather  fiercely,  and  walked 
away.  My  wife  followed  me  with  her  eyes  — 
she  could  not  divine  the  cause.  Mary  and  the 
nurse  were  in  raptures  with  the  child  ;  both  af- 
firmed it  to  be  so  large  and  so  pretty,  and  the 
doctor,  though  not  so  extravagant  in  his  encomi- 
ums, still  pronounced  it  to  be  a  very  healthy, 
fine  boy.  "  Are  you  sorry  it  is  born,  William  ?  " 
said  my  wife,  gently,  while  the  tears  were  in 
h«-r  eyes.  I  now  felt  the  necessity  of  acting 
the  hypocrite,  if  I  did  not  wish  to  agitate,  per- 
haps dangerously,  her  whom  I  really  loved. 
44  No,  no,  Eliza,  no,  no!  my  feelings  were  so 
much  excited  about  you  !  "  I  kissed  her  again, 
and  went  over  to  look  a  second  time  at  my  son. 
The  features  were  small  and  regular,  and  an 


COMMON    EVENTS.  127 

experienced  eye  might  easily  have  prognosti- 
cated that  the  child  w^nld  become  a  very  pretty 
child.  But>  er  1  g&xea  on  it,  the  face  became 
distorted,  preliminary  to  a  scream  ;  and  the  idea 
of  its  smallness  and  its  ugliness  so  fastened  on 
me,  that  I  was  obliged  to  retreat  from  the  room, 
under  pretence  of  faintness  and  fatigue. 

In  truth,  it  is  a  great  mistake  which  the  wo- 
men commit  in  supposing  that  men  generally 
feel  interest  in  new-born  babies.  Whenever 
we  hear  a  happy  father  chiming  in  with  the 
chorus — "glorious  little  fellow  —  pretty  little 
dear — great,  stout,  beautiful  baby!"  we  set 
him  down  either  as  partly  a  fool,  or  partly  en- 
acting the  hypocrite.  The  feeling  of  the 
MOTHER  has  been  growing  for  months  before 
the  stranger  makes  its  appearance,  and  her  in- 
terest in  it  is  identified  with  herself.  But  the 
feeling  of  the  FATHER  cannot  properly  be  stirred 
till  the  little  eyes  begin  to  beam  with  intelli- 
gence, and  a  smile  plays  over  the  face  of  the 
child. 


On  coming  home  one  afternoon,  Mary 
opened  the  door,  sobbing  convulsively.  "  Oh, 
sir  !  oh,  sir  !  little  Johnny  !  "  I  flew  up  stairs, 
and  found  my  darling  boy  in  a  fit.  He  was 
then  about  fifteen  months  old  —  could  toddle 


128  COMMON    EVENTS. 

about  the  room  —  and  was,  to  my  apprehension, 
a  singularly  interesting  and  attractive  child. 
From  about  the  time  that  he  was  three  months 
old,  he  had  been  gradually  gaining  on  my 
affections,  and  now  he  was  enshrined  in  my 
u-t  of  hearts/'  He  lay  on  a  pillow  on  his 
mother's  knees  ;  and  the  pale  and  passionless 
expression  of  her  countenance  too  plainly  told 
me  that  the  shock  had  been  sudden,  and  was 
serious  enough  to  absorb  her  tears.  The  doctor, 
also,  was  present ;  a  warm  bath  had  been  ad- 
ministered, and  another  was  ordered.  Seizing 
the  doctor  by  the  arm,  I  led  him  out  of  the 
room,  and  when  out  of  hearing  of  the  mother, 
I  gasped  out,  "  Tell  me,  sir,  is  my  child  in 
danger?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  firm  reply  ;  "  but  while  there 
is  life,  there  is  hope." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  hope  —  is  my 
child  dying  ?  " 

"  Compose  yourself,  my  dear  sir,  and  go 
down  stairs  for  a  few  minutes  :  we  arc  trying 
what  we  can  do  for  him,  and  you  must  wait  the 
result  —  children  have  many  lives." 

"  Children  have  many  lives !  "  I  muttered,  as 
I  walked  away.  The  idea  of  the  death  of  my 
son  was  quite  stupifying.  I  had  left  him  in 
apparently  robust  health  in  the  morning — that 
very  day  I  had  been  speculating  on  his  growing 


COMMON    EVENTS.  129 

up,  and  becoming  the  little  delightful  babbling 
companion  of  my  walks  —  and  here  he  was  in 
the  jaws  of  death !  If  I  ever  prayed  in  ear- 
nestness, I  prayed  now — I  went  out  into  the 
garden,  and  looking  up  to  the  sky,  prayed  in 
convulsive,  silent  agony,  that  God  would  spare 
my  child  ! 

Towards  evening  he  revived,  though  appa- 
rently much  exhausted,  having,  in  addition  to 
successive  warm  baths,  been  copiously  bled  and 
blistered.  Poor  little  fellow  !  he  recognized  his 
father,  and  stretched  out  his  hands.  I  took  him, 
in  my  arms,  on  his  pillow,  and  walked  with  him 
up  and  down  the  room.  "  Are  you  better,  my 
dear  ?  "  I  said,  and  the  little  fellow  smiled,  as 
if  thanking  me  for  the  interest  I  felt  on  his 
behalf.  How  my  heart  yearned  !  —  I  thought 
it  had  been  impossible  for  me  to  feel  deep  in- 
terest on  behalf  of  a  young  child,  even  if  that 
child  were  my  own.  Now,  I  felt  as  if  I  could 
lay  down  untold  money  at  the  feet  of  the  man 
who  would  save  him. 

The  doctor  was  gone ;  but  had  left  strict 
orders  to  be  sent  for  if  the  slightest  change 
should  take  place.  The  child  fell  into  a  placid 
slumber;  and  his  mother  and  I  sat  down  to- 
gether,  watching  him  with  hope  and  fear.  But 
towards  the  middle  of  the  night  a  change  took 
place  —  he  became  rapidly  worse,  and  before 


130  mom 


morning  dawned  the  "  light  of  my  eyes  "  was 

dead! 


Some  days  afterwards,  I  went  about  my  busi- 
;sual,  and,  among  others,  encountered 
an   individual,  with   whom   I   was    on    intimate 
terms  —  a    hearty,  jocular  man,  and  to  whom  a 
laugh  was  far  more  congenial  than  a  tear.     He 
-srd  his  sympathy,  but   in   a   tone  so 
ludicrous,  that  I  could  i.  I   smile.     Mis- 

taking in;.  Mince  of  sorrow,  he 

began  to  joke,  and,  in  what    hi;    thought  a  very 
funny  way,  told  m-  From  that  mo- 

ment ri  him  ;   and,  at  this 

distance  of  time,  I  still  regard  him  as  the  brute 
who  joked  over  of  my  first-born. 


W 


131 


THE   DEVOTED   SON. 

WHY  mourn'st  thou,  Mother  ?  why  has  pain 
Its  furrows  to  thy  pale  brow  given  ? 
Seek  not  to  hold  thyself  from  heaven  ! 

'Tis  heaven  that  draws,  —  resign  thou,  then. 

Yes,  —  banish  every  futile  tear, 

And  offer  to  its  source  above, 

In  gratitude  and  humble  love, 
The  choicest  of  thy  treasures  here. 

We  murmur,  if  the  bark  should  strand  ; 
But  not,  when,  richly  laden,  she 
Comes  from  the  wild  and  raging  sea, 

Within  a  haven  safe  to  land. 

We  murmur,  if  the  balm  be  shed  ; 

Yes,  —  murmur  for  the  odor's  sake  ; 

But  not,  whene'er  the  glass  may  break, 
If  that  which  filled  it  be  not  fled. 

He  strives  in  vain  who  seeks  to  stay 
The  bounding  waters  in  their  course, 
When  hurled  from  rocks  with  giant  force, 

Towards  some  calm  and  spacious  bay. 


132  THE    DEVOTED   SON. 

Thus  turns  the  earthly  globe  ; — though  o'er 
His  infant's  corse  a  father  mourn, 
Or  child  bedew  its  parents'  urn,  — 

Death  passes  neither  house  nor  door. 

Blest  is  the  mind,  that,  fixed  and  free, 
To  wanton  pleasures  scorns  to  yield, 
And  wards,  as  with  a  pliant  shield, 

The  arrows  of  adversity. 


133 

THE   SMUGGLER. 

A     TALE     OF     THE     SEA. 

IN  the  autumn  of  the  year  18 ,  there 

dwelt  in  a  retired  part  of  the  wretched  town  of 
Flushing,  not  far  from  the  sea-side,  an  English 
family.  The  house  in  which  they  resided 
looked  mean  and  solitary  ;  the  upper  part  had 
not  even  the  appearance  of  having  been  ten- 
anted for  many  years. 

It  stood  by  itself,  and  its  gray  walls  looked 
dreary  and  cheerless,  like  the  walls  of  a  prison; 
a  small  court-yard  separated  the  building  from 
the  road,  but  it  was  neglected  and  overgrown 
with  weeds.  The  swallow  built  its  nest  unmo- 
lested under  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  the 
jackdaw  seemed  disposed  to  take  possession  of 
the  chimneys.  On  the  particular  day  with 
which  my  story  commences,  the  window-shutters 
on  the  ground  floor  were  partially  closed,  al- 
though the  sun  was  yet  some  degrees  above  the 
horizon  ;  and  one  or  two  which  had  escaped  the 
rusty  hold-fasts  in  the  wall,  swung  backwards 
and  forwards,  creaking  mournfully  on  their 
hinges.  Even  at  midsummer,  or  upon  the 
12 


134  THE    SMUGGLER. 

brightest  day,  this  dwelling  had  a  cold  wintry 
appearance,  and  the  barking  of  a  fierce  wolf- 
dog  whenever  a  stranger  approached,  was  the 
only  noise  to  denote  that  life  existed  there.  But 
although  its  external  appearance  bespoke  inani- 
mate poverty  and  wretchedness,  there  were 
inmates  there  who,  though  they  cared  not  to 
attract  the  notice  of  the  passers-by,  had  that 
knowledge  of  comfort  of  which  the  blazing  fire 
and  the  neatly-spread  table  within  gave  ample 
proof. 

I  have  said  that  the  sun  was  still  some  de- 
grees above  the  horizon  —  so  it  was  ;  but  the 
time-piece  was  the  only  evidence  of  that  fact, 
for,  bright  as  it  may  have  shone  in  other  parts, 
its  intense  light  could  not  penetrate  the  rolling 
clouds  which  continued  since  noon  to  hang 
heavily  over  this  marshy  land.  The  air  was 
unusually  close,  heavy,  and  oppr  The 

morning  had  opened  with  a  dazzling  watery  sun, 
but  towards  mid-day  the  sky  became  overcast. 
The  copper  tinge  in  the  heavens,  and  the  distant 
peals  of  thunder,  at  first  but  indistinctly  heard, 
denoted  the  gathering  storm.  The  cattle  gra- 
zing in  the  fields  no  longer  cropped  the  fragrant 
herbage  (although  from  the  recent  heavy  au- 
tumnal rains  the  verdure  looked  as  fresh  and  as 
green  as  in  the  month  of  May),  and  the  evening 
song  of  the  little  birds  was  hushed  in  silence. 


THE    SMUGGLER.  135 

Towards  night-fall,  a  low  cautious  tap  at  the 
door  of  the  solitary  residence  attracted  the 
attention  of  its  inmates,  who  were  seated  round 
the  fire.  Although  it  was  scarcely  discernable, 
from  the  heavy  rain  which  dashed  against  the 
window-shutters,  the  elder  of  the  family  rose 
from  his  seat,  and  approaching  the  entrance, 
waited  in  silence  until  the  knock  was  repeated. 
He  then  raised  the  latch  at  a  given  signal,  and 
a  young  man  in  the  ordinary  dress  of  a  sailor 
entered  the  apartment,  muttering,  in  a  dissatis- 
fied indistinct  tone,  a  seaman's  anathema  against 
the  weather.  Without  noticing  the  inmates,  most 
of  whom  rose  on  his  entrance,  he  proceeded, 
very  much  after  the  fashion  of  a  Newfoundland 
dog  just  out  of  the  water,  to  shake  off  the  large 
drops  of  rain  which  sparkled  like  crystals  on 
the  shaggy  nap  of  his  Flushing  jacket,  and  re- 
moving his  neckerchief,  which  was  nearly  satu- 
rated by  the  wet  trickling  down  his  neck,  he 
seated  himself  opposite  the  fire  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  knew  himself  to  be  an  intimate,  if 
not  a  welcome  guest. 

"  Well,  Roderick,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he 
resumed  his  Dutch  pipe  within  the  alcove  of  the 
blazing  fire,  "  we  have  a  roughish  night  of  it." 

"  Why  yes,"  replied  the  young  sailor,  u  I 
guess  as  how  we  have  a  roughish  sort  of  night 
of  it  indeed  ;  that's  as  be,  if  the  wind  blowing 


136  THE    SMUGGLER. 

great  guns  ami  small  arms,  and  the  rain  batter- 
about  one's  ears  like   marlin-spikes   points 
downwards,  can  make  it  so.     For  my  own  part, 
I'm  not  to  say  over-nice  about  the  weather  at 
th«-   best  u1  times  ;    but  one  hardly  reckons  on 
taken  aback,  as  it  were,  by  a  December 
.  a  I'M iv  the  autumn   is  well   over 
one's  head." 

M  I'MM.  j..,h.  Rod. -rick,"  observed  the  old  man, 
smilingly ;  "  never  stand  about  the  rain,  my 
boy ;  if  the  gale  batters  about  our  heads,  why 
it  batters  about  b  of  others  as  well ;  and 

there'll  be  less  chance  of  cruisers  in  the  Chan- 
nel to-night.  Come,  Nance,  my  old  girl,  let's 
splice  the  mainbrace  ;  Roderick  wont  refuse  to 
drink  the  good  old  toast  of  *  The  ship  that  goes, 
the  wind  that  blows,  and  the  lass  that  loves  a 
sailor.'  " 

woman  thus  addressed  was  the  old  man's 
.  and  the  mother  of  his  family.  She  was  a 
WMinan  of  superior  intellectual  endowments, 
although  lowly,  meek,  and  humble  ;  and  she 
filled  the  station  which  Providence  had  assigned 
her  with  feminine  care  and  assiduity.  She 
moved  about  the  apartment  with  noiseless  ac- 
tivity, the  general  sweetness  of  her  heart  dis- 
pensed happiness  around  her,  and  she  was  never 
more  cheerful  than  when  providing  for  the  com- 
forts of  him  upon  whom  the  fondness  of  the 


THE    SMUGGLER.  137 

woman  had  settled  —  and  what  can  there  be  on 
this  earth  to  equal  the  intensity  of  a  woman's 
love  ?  What  said  the  smuggler  to  this  partner 
of  his  existence,  when  his  only  son  died  in  her 
arms,  and  in  the  intense  agony  of  her  grief  the 
world  appeared  at  that  moment  void  of  anything 
that  could  bring  comfort  to  her  mind  ?  — 
"  Nance,  thou  wert  bidden  to  eat  of  my  bread, 
and  to  drink  of  my  cup  ;  they  shall  yet  be  made 
sweet  to  thee  ;  I  will  give,  and  thou  shalt  enjoy 
—  be  thou  yet  retained  to  cheer  a  blighted 
home  !  " 

The  fragrant  Scheidam,  and  a  pitcher  of 
spring-water,  clear  as  crystal,  were  placed  on 
the  table.  The  old  man  helped  himself  spar- 
ingly, for  he  had  not  yet  had  his  evening  meal, 
but  the  young  sailor  did  ample  justice  to  the 
proposed  toast. 

The  head  of  this  family  was  a  man  in  robust 
health,  tall,  and  of  powerful  sinew ;  age  had 
not  yet  crippled  his  manly  form,  although  nearly 
seventy  winters  and  exposure  to  a  variety  of 
climes,  may  have  varied  the  once  dark  color  of 
his  hair  to  an  iron  grey  ;  his  arms  were  yet 
strong  and  muscular,  and  it  might  have  been 
profitable  to  those  who  had  any  dealings  with 
him  to  count  him  rather  as  a  friend  than  an 
enemy. 

His  features  were  strikingly  prominent ;  his 
12* 


138  THE    SMUGGLER. 

forehead,  from  which  his  bristly  hair  was 
combed  back,  projected  over  very  large  black 
I,  of  calm  yet  dignified  expression  ;  his  high 
cheek-bones  were  covered  to  their  apex  by  long 
wiry  whiskers,  which  united  in  a  thick  bushy 
cluster  underneath  the  chin;  the  throat  and  part 
of  the  chest  were  quite  bare,  and  his  corn- 
on  might  have  been  sallow,  but  for  the  neu- 
tral tint  brtwrrn  a  red  and  brown,  which  had  so 
effectually  bronzed  it. 

I1  it  though  calm  and  dignified,  the  traces  of 
an  anxious  mind  were  apparent  in  the  sunken 
eye  and  furrov  k,  worn  as  it  were  by 

thought  and  care,  rather  than  by  grief  or  »>M 
age.  Yet  the  hardihood  of  his  manner,  the 
activity  <>t  <  mcnts,  and  the  profession  to 

which  he  appeared  to  belong,  added  to  his  de- 
termined tone,  gave  to  hi-  outline  a 
freedom  of  action  of  that  elastic  character 
which  seemed  to  promise  that  he  had  yet  many 
years  of  the  sands  of  life  to  run. 

His  dress  was  simply  that  of  the  humble 
mariner,  partaking  in  part  the  costume  of  the 
Dutch  fisherman  with  that  of  the  Folkstone 
pilot ;  and  he  looked  like  a  brave  man,  who 
although  perhaps  not  easily  excited,  would,  for 
that  reason,  be  the  less  easily  subdued. 

The  life  he  led,  for  I  cannot  designate  him 
by  any  name  —  a  false  one  I  will  not,  his  real 


THE    SMUGGLER.  139 

one  I  cannot  give  him  —  was  that  of  a  smug- 
gler. He  had  been  forced  into  it  by  circum- 
stances of  a  singular  and  uncontrollable  nature, 
and  although  the  commencement  of  such  a  life 
may  have  been  repugnant  to  his  feelings,  its 
attractions  and  the  prospect  of  soon  realizing. a 
fortune  dazzled  his  ardent  mind,  and  in  time 
habit  had  strongly  attached  him  to  it. 

Often,  in  the  anguish  of  a  woman's  fears,  had 
his  wife  hung  on  his  neck  with  intense  feeling, 
beseeching  him,  for  the  sake  of  those  whom 
Providence  had  confided  to  his  care,  to  relin- 
quish the  doubtful,  dangerous,  indefensible  trade 
of  a  contrabandist ;  and  strongly  did  she  urge 
those  long  restless  nights  of  misery,  when,  in 
the  stillness  of  feverish  repose,  the  image  of 
her  husband  has  haunted  her  in  a  thousand 
frightful  forms ;  at  one  moment  betrayed  into 
the  hands  of  a  watchful  enemy,  or,  at  another, 
driven  upon  the  rocks,  and  carried  from  her 
grasp  by  the  receding  surge  into  the  deep 
waters  ;  but  hitherto  her  efforts  had  been  una- 
vailing. 

The  smuggler  was  a  native  of  Cornwall,  and 
in  early  life  commanded  a  fine  trading  sloop 
which  his  father  had  bequeathed  him.  He  told 
me  himself  (poor  fellow  !)  that  she  was  the 
pride  of  his  heart,  and  a  tighter  built  craft  had 


THE    SMUGGLER. 

never  sailed  from  Fowey.  He  had  made  three 
prosperous  trips  in  her,  when  a  continued  storm 
drove  him  off  the  land,  and  for  nine  days  he 
beat  about  the  narrow  channel,  without  a  single 
glimpse  of  sun  or  star  to  tell  him  where  he  was. 
On  the  morning  of  the  tenth  day  it  blew  a  hur- 
ricane ;  his  little  sea-boat  labored  in  the  trough 
of  the  heavy  sea,  and  although  he  could  not 
show  a  stitch  of  canvas,  he  had  hope  of  weath- 
:  the  storm,  when  the  mist  suddenly  cleared 
away,  and  he  found  himself  upon  a  lee-shore, 
drifting  rapidly  towards  the  ru«-ks.  An  enemy's 
port  lay  within  his  reach  ;  by  prompt  and  ener- 
getic management  he  •  \\  rather  the 
breakers,  and  round  the  light-house  at 
ern  extremity  of  the  harbor;  but  then  he  must 
surrender  himself,  his  vessel,  and  his  cargo,  and 
become  a  prisoner  of  war  —  to  endure,  perhaps, 
years  of  wretched  confinement.  However,  he 
had  not  even  time  to  dwell  upon  the  misery  of 
such  an  alternative  ;  the  moment  was  critical, 
and  by  instant  decision  could  he  alone  hope  to 
rescue  himself  and  his  crew  from  the  perils  of 
the  deep.  Quick  in  his  resolve,  he  ordered  the 
only  sail  he  had  left  to  be  hoisted  —  the  little 
vessel  dashed  through  the  foamy  water,  and  in 
half  an  hour  from  the  moment  he  discovered 
the  land,  he  and  his  exhausted  crew  were  con- 


THE    SMUGGLER.  141 

signed  to  the  custody  of  the  gendarmes,  and  all 
the  property  he  possessed  in  this  world  was  lost 
to  him  for  ever. 

He  then  became  the  agent  of  a  smuggling 
concern,  from  which  he  progressively  merged 
into  that  of  a  principal,  and  afterwards  removed 
to  Flushing,  where  he  was  joined  by  his  wife 
and  family. 

Having  given  this  short  sketch  of  the  early 
life  of  the  smuggler,  which  it  is  perhaps  as  well 
the  reader  should  know,  we  now  return  to  the 
solitary  dwelling. 

"  Well,  Roderick,"  inquired  the  smuggler, 
"  have  you  got  all  the  bales  on  board  ?  " 

"  Ay,  master,"  answered  Roderick,  who  was 
the  mate  of  the  vessel  in  question,  "  the  last 
bale  was  snug  under  hatches  and  well  battened 
down  afore  I  put  my  foot  ashore ;  and  as  for 
that  lubberly-looking  rascal  who  has  been  back- 
ing and  filling  in  my  wake  the  whole  of  this 
blessed  day,  I  only  wish  I  had  the  chap  in  blue 
water,  and  if  I  would'nt  show  him  the  tilting 
end  of  a  plank,  my  name's  not  Bill  Roderick." 

"  Poh,  poh,"  said  the  smuggler,  "  you  and  I 
have  lived  too  long  in  a  wood  to  be  frightened 
by  an  owl,  Roderick  ;  and  as  for  the  matter  of 
that  dodging  scoundrel,  why  let  him  do  his  best 
—  I  know  him  well,  the  sneaking  hypocrite ! 
All  he  can  say.  now  will  hardly  reach  the  other 


-  THE    SMUGGLER. 

side  of  the  water,  if  we   once   get  this  night's 
breeze  well  under  the  stern  of  the  little  Scadrift. 

•  With  our  pockets  well  lined,  why  our  lives  shall  bo 

mended, 
The  laws  of  our  country  we  ne'er  will  break  more." 

Although  the  skipper  of  the  Scad  rift  quoted 
the  outrage  on  the  laws  of  his  country,  when  he 
sang  this  fragment  of  Dibdin's  well-known  song, 
men   thought   less  lightly  of  the  guilt  at- 
tached to  it  than  he  did. 

her  this  proceeded  from  a  singular  ab- 
sence of  that  mom.  inch  tells  a  man  the 
distinction  bet\  :  and  wrong,  or  whether 
the  smuggler  <  limself  justified  in  doing 
that  for  his  livelihood  which,  hud  he  abstained 
from  when  the  opportunity  offered,  hundreds  of 
other  men  would  have  embarked  in,  1  cannot 
pretend  to  say  ;  but  as  his  was  a  cool  reflecting 
mind,  I  should  rather  attribute  it  to  the  latter 
B,  although  in  the  first  onset  of  his  bold 
career  the  risk  he  incurred  might  have  brought 
the  first  home  to  his  untutored  feelings.  How- 
ever that  might  be,  habit  and  prosperous  voyages 
had  so  far  effectually  banished  such  qualms  of 
conscience  from  the  breast  of  the  hardy  mariner, 
that  he  now  considered  it  as  much  a  pan  of  his 
duty  to  defend,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  lite  and 
regardless  of  the  sacrifice  it  might  cause  of 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


143 


others,  his  contraband  property,  as  strenuously 
as,  on  the  other  hand,  he  would  have  fought  to 
recover  it  for  the  revenue  of  his  country,  had 
the  duties  of  a  custom-house  officer  devolved  on 
him. 

When  the  clock  struck  eight,  a  warm  supper 
was  placed  before  the  skipper  of  the  Seadrift 
and  Roderick.  Some  excellent  Dutch  herrings, 
a  fine  piece  of  Hambro'  beef,  and  a  savory 
omelet,  comprised  the  repast,  on  which  the 
smuggler  asked  a  blessing  with  becoming  so- 
lemnity, and  the  family  sat  down  and  partook  of 
the  meal ;  but  it  was  not  a  cheerful  one.  There 
were  around  that  table  conflicting  feelings  which 
forbade  mirth.  The  head  of  the  family  was 
upon  the  eve  of  another  departure  from  his 
home  ;  and  although  he  promised  that  this 
voyage  should  be  his  last — that  he  would  not 
again  tempt  that  Providence  which  had  hereto- 
fore been  kind  to  him,  and  that  having  run  this 
cargo,  he  would  turn  the  Seadrift  over  to  Rod- 
erick, and  remove  from  his  present  dismal  abode 
to  a  less  gloomy  habitation,  yet,  upon  such  a 
night  —  the  rain  dashing  against  the  shutters, 
and  the  storm  almost  shaking  the  house  to  its 
foundation  —  what  pledge  could  wholly  remove 
the  anxious  forebodings  of  an  attached  wife  ? 
In  another  short  hour  he  would  be  tossed  about 
on  the  fearful  billow,  and  every  fresh  blast  of 


144  THE    SMUGGLER. 

wind  throughout  the  night  would  too  surely  recall 
to  her  distracted  mind. 

There  was  another  also  present,  of  whom 
mention  has  not  yet  been  made.  She  was  a 
dark-haired  girl,  of  surpassing  loveliness  ;  her 
form  was  light  and  graceful,  and  her  tiny  foot 
-  on  the  sand,  as  she  had  often 
boun  -ird,  on  the  arrival  of  her  lover,  to 

•  him.     She  was  not  above  the  middle  height 
of  woman,  but  her  figur  lisitely  round- 

ed. Her  complexion  was  dark,  like  that  of  her 
father,  and  her  luxuriant  hair  black  as  tin-  ra- 
ven's wing.  Her  sparkling  eyes  were  shaded 
by  long  and  silken  and  yi-t  those  eyes, 

brill.  jht.     She 

sat  n 
eldest  daughter. 

To  say  th  mind    was   free   from  the 

disquietude  which  at  this  moment  pervaded 
others  of  the  family  group  would  be  a  manifest 
injustice  to  the  feelings  she  entertained,  with  all 
the  fervency  of  a  first  attachment,  towards  one 
of  the  party ;  and  the  intense  anguish  with 
which  she  had  raised  her  dark  expressive  eye, 
when  her  father  announced  his  intention  of 
making  over  to  Roderick  the  little  Seadrift  after 
this  voyage,  spoke  her  feelings  with  silent  elo- 
quence. 

One  other  person  sat  upon  the  right  hand  of 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


145 


the  smuggler.  He  was  a  fine  boy,  and  from 
the  lineaments  of  his  features,  a  stranger  would 
have  said  that  he  sprung  from  gentle  blood. 
The  name  he  went  by  was  Henry  Trevillian. 
No  one  could  say  whether  that  was  his  patrony- 
mic or  not,  for  little  was  known  of  his  history 
before  he  became  an  inmate,  and  to  all  appear- 
ance a  member,  of  the  smuggler's  family.  It 
was  conjectured  that  he  had  been  confided  to 
the  paternal  care  of  the  smuggler  under  peculiar 
circumstances  ;  the  youth  himself  regarded  the 
old  man  as  his  father. 

The  boy  sat  on  the  right  hand  of  the  smug- 
gler, looking  up  to  him  with  alternate  feelings 
of  hope  and  fear ;  for  he  had  that  morning 
pleaded  hard  to  be  taken  on  board  the  Seadrift 
this  voyage.  The  idea  of  being  a  sailor-boy 
had  caught  the  lad's  fancy  ;  to  be  tossed  about 
on  the  mountain  wave,  in  the  beautiful  little 
.vessel  he  so  often  visited  when  in  harbor,  was 
something  so  novel  and  delightful  to  his  young 
imagination,  that  the  moment  their  frugal  meal 
was  finished,  and  while  Roderick  was  soothing 
the  dark-eyed  maid  with  a  sailor's  benediction, 
the  boy  rose  suddenly  from  his  seat,  threw  him- 
self with  convulsive  energy  into  the  embrace  of 
the  old  man,  and  declared  his  determination  to 
accompany  him. 

"  Well,  well,  Harry,  be  it  so,  my  boy ;  'twill 
13 


MG  THE    SMUGGLER. 

only  be  for  a  few  days  ;  you'll  soon  wish  your- 
self under  the  old  lady's  wing  again."  And 
with  this  observation  the  smuggler  rose  from  his 
chair,  and,  with  a  powerful  effort  to  subdue  the 
feelings  of  the  husband  and  parent,  hastily 
<sed  his  children,  pressed  to  his  bosom  the 
mother  of  his  ofl'spring,  and,  followed  by  Rod- 
erick and  the  boy,  hurried  from  the  only  scene 
of  enjoyment  he  had  in  this  world,  into  the 
gloom  of  night,  to  resume  his  dangerous  calling, 
with  sensations  of  a  better  kind  than  the  world 

given  the  outlaw  credit  for. 
ss   than    half    an    !  harbor    was 

cleared,  and  the  little  Si-adrift  was  on  tin-  wing, 
cart--  id  of  canvass, 

i    bore    IHT    rapidly    from    the    spot   win-re- 
Roderick's  heart  lay. 

beautiful  little  Scad  rift  sailed  like  a 
witch.  Her  owner  boasted  that  nothing  he  had 
ever  seen  could  touch  her ;  and  she  had  had 
some  sharp  trials  in  her  time  with  some  of  our 
small  cruisers.  It  was  said  that  she  could  dis- 
guise herself*  and  baffle  the  wits  of  our  lynx- 
eyed  revenue  men,  with  singular  facility  ;  at 
one  moment  floating  on  the  water  as  light  and 
as  gracefully  as  a  Columbine,  and  the  next  as 
heavy  and  as  sluggish  in  her  appearance  as  a 
clumsy  coasting  sloop. 

It  is,  however,  our  privilege  to  sail  even  faster 


THE    SMUGGLER.  147 

than  the  Seadrift ;  for  on  the  same  autumnal  day 
which  witnessed  her  departure  from  Flushing, 
we  beg  to  introduce  the  reader  to  an  English 
frigate  which  has  just  cast  anchor  in  an  unfre- 
quented roadstead  on  the  western  coast  of  Ire- 
land, after  having  narrowly  escaped  those  dan- 
gerous rocks  in  the  Mai  bay  which  run  hidden 
a  long  way  into  the  Atlantic,  and  on  which  a 
portion  of  the  proud  Armada  of  Spain  was 
totally  destroyed  in  1588. 

The  sea  around  the  lonely  isles  of  Arran,  and 
for  some  miles  along  the  rocky  shore  from  Gal- 
way  to  the  entrance  of  the  river  Shannon,  pre- 
sented one  continued  sheet  of  living  foam  ;  for 
the  equinoctial  gales  had  this  year  set  in  before 
the  expected  time,  and  with  unusual  severity. 

Happy  were  they,  who,  having  a  clear  offing 
and  plenty  of  sea-room,  could  lay  their  vessel 
to  under  her  storm -staysails,  and  quaff  their 
three-watered  grog  in  conscious  security,  as 
their  well-trimmed  bark  rose  on  the  billow,  like 
the  stormy  petrel  which  followed  in  her  wake. 

There  was  not,  at  the  period  I  am  speaking 
of,  that  bright  revolving  light  which  is  now  ex- 
hibited on  the  central  isle  of  Arran,  as  a  friendly 
beacon  to  ships  of  every  nation,  to  tell  them  of 
their  affinity  with  the  hidden  dangers  of  Mai 
bay  ;  and  many  a  brave  mariner,  driven  by  the 
tempest  from  tho  broad  bosom  of  the  Atlantic, 


148  THE    SMUGGLER. 

perished  under  the  shade  of  the  long  win- 
gloomy  night,  on  the  rocks  which  guard 
this   dreary,   thinly-inhabited,   iron-girt    shore, 
unseen  and  unheard  of! 

The  frigate  which  found  so  welcome  a  shelter 
in  the  raivly-visitcd  roadstead  alluded  to,  was 

: -it'll   early  in  the   morning  by  a  few  poor 

rmen  to  the  northward  of  the  high  cliff  of 
Baltard.  She  appeared  to  tremble  beneath  the 
pressure  of  her  storm-sails,  as  she  struggled  to 

her  a  reef  of  rocks  which  ran  out  from  a 
low  island  ;  and  keenly  did  those  iishi  rim -n 
watch  with  intense  interest  the  progress  of  the 
noble  vessel,  calculating  the  portion  of  plunder 
that  would  fall  to  the  lot  of  each  individual,  if 
unhappily  she  failed  to  weather  the  1m •:»!. 
But  Providence  on  this  occasion  interposed  be- 

n  the  gallant  crew  and  the  lawless  designs 
of  the  marauding  fishermen.  The  frigate 
proudly  sustained  the  character  she  had  borne, 
of  being  one  of  the  best  sea-boats  in  h 
ty's  service  ;  and  the  heartless  pillage  of  the 
shipwrecked  mariner  was  reserved  for  the  sub- 
sequent disasters  which  befel  the  less  fortunate 
crew  of  the  Martin,  on  that  very  coast. 

It  is  a  beautiful  sight  at  any  time  to  see  a  fine 
man-of-war  come  to  an  anchor,  under  all  the 
majesty  of  her  noble  bearing  on  the  water ;  and 
especially  so  when  it  blows  a  gale  of  wind. 


THE    SMUGGLER.  149 

The  frigate,  on  approaching  the  anchorage, 
gradually  shortened  sail  to  her  close-reefed  top- 
sails, furled  her  courses,  and  braced  her  yards, 
so  that,  when  she  dropped  her  anchor,  they 
would  be  pointed  obliquely  to  the  wind.  Final- 
ly, she  furled  her  last  remaining  sail,  and  the 
moment  the  fluke  of  her  ponderous  best  bower 
took  firm  hold  of  the  ground,  she  swung  round 
with  her  head  majestically  to  the  gale. 

In  a  few  minutes  everything  seemed  as  tran- 
quil on  board  as  if  she  had  lain  there  from  the 
commencement  of  the  storm,  and  the  disap- 
pointed fishermen  hastened  along  the  brow  of 
the  cliff  to  the  little  cove  at  the  head  of  the 
roadstead,  to  examine  their  boats,  which  lay 
snugly  moored  under  the  shelter  of  a  natural 
breakwater. 

Towards  evening  the  gale  moderated,  but 
not  sufficiently  to  induce  the  captain  to  attempt 
a  landing.  The  weather  still  bore  a  gloomy 
aspect ;  mares'-tails  were  floating  wildly  in  the 
unsettled  sky,  blown  about  by  the  contending 
winds  aloft  into  a  thousand  fantastic  forms ; 
and  the  setting  sun  too  surely  indicated,  by  its 
fierce  angry  glare,  a  continuation  of  the  equi- 
noctial gale.  The  little  birds  called  by  seamen 
Mother  Carey's  chickens,  skimmed  along  the 
surface  of  the  water,  gracefully  tipping  the 
very  edge  of  the  waves  with  their  extended 
13* 


150  THE    SMUGGLER. 

wings,  and  then  descending  into  the  hollow  of 
the  sea,  would  rise  again,  and  struggle  to  stem 
the  already  freshening  breeze,  until,  no  longer 
able  to  fly  to  windward,  they  wheeled  round  on 
the  \viii£  with  graceful  curvatim:,  and  darted 
along  the  margin  of  the  deep  with  the  swiftness 
of  the  swallow  ;  while  the  larger  birds  balanced 
themselves  in  the  wake  of  the  ship,  watching 
for  the  particles  of  food  which  floated  astern. 

The  small  bower  anchor  was  dropped  under 
foot ;  the  shee  -  and   prepara- 

tions were  made  for  obtaining  a  supply  of 
'water  the  following  morning.  Tin-  anchor- 
watch  was  then  called  ;  and  at  9.30  the  captain 
delivered  his  night-order  book  to  the  officer  of 
.-itch. 

The  ship  might  now  be  said  to  be  in  :• 
of  profound  repose  ;  the  lights  of  the  crew  had 
been  extinguished  at  eight  o'clock,  which,  in 
the  autumnal  and  winter  seasons  of  the  year,  is 
the  curfew-bell  of  the  service.  The  officers 
who  had  their  turn  of  night-duty  to  take  had 
retired  to  their  cots  or  hammocks ;  and  the 
anchor- watch  were  permitted  to  lie  down  on 
the  main-deck,  where,  upon  the  oak-plank,  and 
each  affording  the  other  his  uppermost  hip  for  a 
pillow,  their  deep  sleep  might  have  been  envied 
by  many  of  the  nobles  of  the  land.  All  was 
quiet  and  noiseless,  save  the  wind  rattling 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


151 


mournfully  through  the  cordage,  and  the  meas- 
ured, thoughtful  walk  of  the  officer  and  quarter- 
master on  duty. 

As  soon  as  the  feeble  light  had  ceased  to 
glimmer  underneath  the  folds  of  the  tarpaulin 
which  covered  the  skylight  of  the  captain's 
cabin,  and  when  the  drowsy  skipper  was  al- 
lowed a  reasonable  time  to  sink  into  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  past  and  present,  the  cautious  lieu- 
tenant called  his  next  in  command  over  to  his 
side  of  the  deck,  and  ordering  him  to  keep  a 
sharp  look-out  for  squalls  —  to  keep  his  eye  on 
the  lead-line  which  was  over  the  gangway  —  and 
above  all,  his  attentive  ear  on  the  captain's  bell, 
he  descended  to  his  cabin,  and,  throwing  himself 
on  his  cot,  soon  ceased  to  think  of  the  skipper 
or  the  night-order  book.  When  the  mate  of  the 
watch  had  walked  over  the  captain's  head  with 
the  measured  tread  of  the  lieutenant,  and  thought 
he  had  given  the  latter  time  enough  to  join  the 
commander  in  his  slumbers,  he,  in  his  turn,  con- 
signed the  care  of  the  frigate  to  the  midshipman 
of  the  watch  ;  but  instead  of  transferring  to  him 
the  admonition  of  the  lieutenant,  he  threatened 
to  give  him  a  precious  good  cobbing  if  he  pre- 
sumed to  leave  the  deck —  a  threat  which  the 
middy  was  quite  sure  would  be  carried  into 
effect,  if  he  was  caught  napping  ;  but  often  as 
the  youngster  had  been  punished  for  similar 


152  THE    SMUGGLER. 

transgessions,  no  sooner  had  the  mate  coiled 
himself  away  in  the  topsail-haulyard  rack,  like 
a  hi:  \  foundland  dog,  enveloped  to  the 

rim  of  his  tarpaulin  hat  in  a  thick  Flushing  coat, 
than  he  made  over  his  post  of  honor  to  the  bluff* 
old  quarter-master,  under  whose  more  faithful 
charge  his  Majesty's  frigate  was  left  to  ride  out 
the  gale. 

It  continued  to  blow  hard  during  the  night, 
but  with  less  steadiness  than  the  day  before ;  the 
squalls  were  therefore  the  mure  sudden  and 
severe.  Towards  the  morning  watch,  the  neck 
of  the  gale  was  fairly  broken,  and  when  the  sun 
rose  it  was  a  perfect  calm.  Tin-  aspect  of  the 
surrounding  objects  dillered  as  much  from  that 
which  they  exhibited  tin-  evening  he  lure  as  the 
beautiful  and  evt-r-varying  effects  of  light  and 
shade  could  make  them.  The  c  then 

almost  shrouded  in  the  drizzling  mist  of  the 
gloomy  storm,  the  rocky  boundary  of  the  iron- 
girt  shore  presented  one  unvaried  line  of  bleak 
and  barren  sterility,  against  which  the  waves 
dashed  with  frightful  violence :  but  now,  as  the 
cheerful  morning  broke  into  the  glorious  light 
of  day,  the  dense  vapor  ascending  from  the 
earth  spread  itself  gradually,  until  it  lay  over 
the  frigate  like  a  dark  canopy,  extending  its  cir- 
cular ridge  to  within  twenty  degrees  of  the 
horizon,  and  leaving  the  beautiful  and  lofty 


THE    SMUGGLER.  153 

mountains  of  Cunnemara  reposing  underneath, 
in  the  clear  blue  atmosphere  of  a  lovely  morn- 
ing. The  headlands  protruded  their  bold  fronts 
into  the  sea,  and  seemed  but  half  their  actual 
distance  from  the  ship.  The  smallest  patches 
of  the  greensward  which  grew  in  the  interstices 
of  the  rocks  were  visible,  and  threw  out  the 
dark-colored  granite  which  formed  the  dreary 
boundary  of  the  coast  into  bold  relief ;  and  the 
verge  of  the  horizon  was  a  perfect  circle  of 
light,  clearly  indicating  the  approach  of  a  warm 
day. 

At  one  bell  after  four,  the  hands  were  turned 
up  to  shorten-in  cable.  The  small  bower,  which 
had  been  dropped  under  foot  as  a  precautionary 
measure  the  night  before,  was  released  from  its 
holding-ground  ;  and  it  was  well  for  those  who 
had  slumbered  on  their  watch  that  the  second 
anchor  was  down,  for  the  ship  had  drifted  during 
the  night  so  far  as  to  alter  the  bearings  taken  by 
the  master  the  evening  before  very  considera- 
bly. But  who  could  say  at  what  hour  she 
drifted  ?  —  it  might  have  been  during  the  first 
watch,  after  the  ship  was  consigned  to  the  gruff 
old  quarter-master,  who  might  have  gone,  when 
his  officers  left  him,  to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the 
galley  ;  or  it  might  have  been  during  the  middle 
watch,  when  the  squall,  which  caused  the  ship 
*o  tremble  again,  came  rushing  down  the  ravine 


i  •">  I  THE    SMUGGLER. 

at  the  head  of  the  roadstead :  at  all  events,  the 
atlair  passed  off  in  quietness,  because  the  de- 
linquency was  not  attended  by  any  serious 

bells,  the  sheet-cable  was  coiled 
away,  yards  squared,  and  sails  loosed  to  dry. 
The  lighter  spars  were  again  pointed  to  the 
zenith,  the  decks  well  holy-stoned  ;  and  then 
the  first  lieutenant  •  -d  to  his  cabin,  to 

purify  the  outer  man  with  a  wash  and  a  shave. 
At   eight   o'clock,   the   boatswain    piped    to 


which  dawned  with  such  singu- 
lar brilliancy  on  the  frigate  found  the  little 
Seadrift  rolling  about  in  the  Channel,  a  consid- 
erable distance  from  the  land  ;  for  she  had  had 
what  the  smuggler  called  a  glorious  run  during 
the  night.  II  hich  had  done  her  good 

•e  when  the  «T:  now  hung  helplessly 

from  the  yards,  flapping  backward  and  forward 
with  the  reciprocal  motion  which  the  vessel  gave 
;.  The  smuggler,  who  seldom  took  oft'  his 
clothes  from  the  time  of  his  departure  until  he 
had  run  his  cargo,  had  already  plunged  his  head 
into  a  bucket  of  seawater,  .and  was  vigorously 
scrubbing  himself  with  a  very  coarse  canvass 
towel,  when  poor  Harry  made  his  appearance 


THE    SMUGGLER.  155 

up  the  companion-hatch,  looking  as  all  people 
look,  whether  male  or  female,  when  under  the 
infliction  of  sea-sickness,  pitiably  pale  and 
wretchedly  miserable.  Harry  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  grasp  the  tiller-rope  ;  but  the  vessel  at 
that  moment  gave  a  tremendous  lurch — the  poor 
little  fellow  lost  his  hold,  and  rolled  into  the  lee- 
scuppers,  overcome  by  that  horrid  dizziness  fa- 
miliar to  the  minds  of  steam-packet  voyagers. 

"  Hallo  !  Harry,  my  lad  !  "  shouted  the  smug- 
gler ;  "  why  you  haven't  got  your  sea-legs 
aboard  this  morning.  Come,  rouse  up,  you 
young  dog ;  you'll  be  a  man  now  afore  your 
niotlwr,  if  you  do  but  look  sharp.  Nelson,  they 
say,  \vas  always  sea-sick  when  he  first  put  out 
of  port." 

"Ay,  master,"  replied  the  old  helmsman,  who 
had  lashed  the  tiller  and  hastened  to  Harry's 
relief;  "  but  Nelson  didn't  lie  in  the  lee-scuppers 
every  time  he  put  out  on  a  cruise,  with  his  pre- 
cious skull  fractured,  like  this  poor  boy." 

The  smuggler  was  at  Harry's  side  in  an  in- 
stant, and  bore  him  down  to  the  cabin  ;  for  he 
was  insensible.  The  application  of  restora- 
tives soon  recovered  him  ;  a  little  adhesive 
plaster  covered  the  slight  wound  which  the 
helmsman  called  a  fracture  ;  and  the  smuggler 
returned  to  his  canvass  towel  and  bucket  of 
sea-water. 


156  THE    SMUGGLER. 

A  light  breeze  had  now  sprung  up,  which  the 
already  wet  canvass  soon  caught,  and  steadied 
the  vessel  as  she  crept  gently  through  the 
water. 

41  Them  'ere  men-of-war's  men  don't  keep 
their  skylights  open,"  observed  the  helmsman, 
44  or  they'd  have  disturbed  our  rest  last  night, 
master." 

44 Ay,  that  they  would,"  said  the  smuggler; 
for  they  were  closer  to  the  little  Seadrift  than 
she  bargained  for." 

'.usiT !  "  responded  the  helmsman  ;  "  why, 
bless  your  heart,  master,  they  were  almost 
within  boat-hook's  length  of  us.  I  could  have 
jerked  a  biscuit  on  board  as  easy  as  I'd  turn 
the  quid  in  my  mouth." 

44  She  was  so  close  as  that  —  was  she  ?  "  in- 
quired the  smuggler. 

44  Close  !  "  echoed  the  helmsman  ;  44  why, 
the  sleepy  lubbers  need  only  have  put  their 
helm  down  when  first  we  saw  them  on  our  lee- 
bow,  and  they'd  have  shot  aboard  us  afore  you 
could  have  said  4  Jack  Robinson.'  " 

44  Ay,  but  you  kept  all  quiet,  Jack  —  didn't 
you  ?  "  asked  the  smuggler. 

44 Ay,  ay,  master,  that  we  did  ;  —  you  might 
have  heard  a  mouse  run  up  the  swifter  when 
their  bell  struck  eight,  and  their  look-out  men 
called  out 4  All's  well ! '  Look-out  men  indeed ! 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


157 


I'm  blessed  but  the  king's  men  want  the  cob- 
webs rubbed  off  their  sleepy  peepers.  How- 
som'dever,  we  got  clear  this  time  —  that's  sar- 
tain ;  and  with  your  leave,  master,  we'll  drink 
success  to  the  next." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  smuggler,  ordering 
the  helmsman  a  strong  nor'wester.  "  Go  you 
to  your  berth,  and  sleep  that  off.  We  sha'nt 
want  you  until  the  dogwatch  ;  and  as  we  near 
the  land,  we'll  lower  our  sails  for  the  night  — 
the  cruisers  may  be  about." 

"  Well,  master, "  observed  the  helmsman,  as 
he  hitched  up  his  trousers  over  his  hips,  "  only 
let's  have  fair  play  —  a  good  rattling  breeze, 
plenty  of  sea-room,  and  no  favor  —  we'll  show 
them  what  use  the  little  Seadrift  can  make  of 
her  heels." 

The  smuggler  then  descended  to  his  break- 
fast, and  the  helmsman  to  his  hammock.  The 
smuggler  found  Harry  lying  on  his  bed ;  his 
sleep  was  feverish,  and  in  his  unquiet  slumber 
he  spoke  of  home.  The  hardy  smuggler  bent 
over  the  sleeping  boy  with  an  anxious  expression 
of  sympathy.  He  lay  partly  on  his  left  side, 
with  his  face  towards  the  light ;  his  left  arm  was 
bent  under  his  cheek,  and  formed  a  substitute 
for  a  pillow,  and  his  hair  fell  in  ringlets  over  his 
pale  forehead.  The  smuggler  continued  in  the 
14 


158  THE    SMUGGLER. 

same  position,  gazing  steadfastly  on  the  face  of 
the  sleeping  child. 

"  .Mama,  mama,  the  Seadrift's  coming  in  !     I 
see  papa  !  "  exclaimed  Harry  in  his  sleep. 

"  Do  you,  my  boy  ?  "  asked  the  smuggler,  in 
the  soft  tone  of  a  parent. 

••  ^  •  s,  that  I  do  !  "  said  the  boy,  stretching 
forth  his  amis  ;  "  look,  mama.  —  there  he  is  I  " 
and  suddenly  awoke  by  his  energy,  he  started 
at  the  objects  around  him,  for  they  were  not 
iar  to  his  eye  ;  but  the  paternal  embrace 
of  the  smuggler  soon  restored  the  poor  boy  to 
the  consciousness  of  the  rocking  vrssrl  in  which 
he  \\  :,  and  ho  again  fell  back  on  the 

bed,  overcome    by    the    dizzy  sickness    under 
which  he  was  sulU-r 

t  Sailors  are  proverbial  for  the  accuracy  of 
their  predictions  respecting  the  weather,  and  well 
may  be,  for  it  forms  an  essential  feature 
in  their  nautical  acquirements.  I  have  known 
a  pilot  on  the  western  coast  of  England  foretell 
a  storm,  when  there  was  but  a  single  speck 
visible  in  the  horizon,  so  small  and  insignificant 
as  to  escape  the  casual  notice  of  persons  less 
experienced  in  those  matters.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  once  knew  an  instance  —  I  rejoice  to 
say,  but  one  of  the  kind,  —  wherein  a  gallant 
young  officer  was  dismissed  from  the  naval  ser- 


THE    SMUGGLER.  159 

vice  of  his  country,  and  thrown  friendless  on 
the  sympathy  of  the  world,  at  the  moment  he 
expected  his  well-earned  promotion,  because  he 
miscalculated  the  force  of  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind,  which,  unfortunately  for  him  —  poor  fel- 
low !  — carried  the  foretop-mast  over  the  vessel's 
side.  In  this  casuality,  as  the  result  was  un- 
favorable, the  delinquency  was  punished. 

The  aspect  of  the  weather  had  undegone  o 
total  change  when  tne  captain  of  the  frigate,  in 
all  the  majesty  of  his  official  dignity,  ascended 
the  companion-ladder  that  morning.  The  vapor 
which  hung  sullenly  over  the  earth  gradually 
melted  away  into  a  broad  circle,  and  settled  in 
the  form  of  a  dark  impenetrable  wall  on  the 
extieme  verge  of  the  horizon.  The  distant 
objects  which  nature  had  before  so  distinctly 
pencilled  in  the  wild  landscape,  were  now  ob- 
scured by  the  heavy  fog  bank,  while  the  sky 
overhead  was  as  bright  and  as  clear  as  the  bril- 
liant sun  could  make  it ;  so  that  the  vessel  lay, 
as  it  were,  in  a  large  basin  surrounded  by  a  cir- 
cular barrier,  which,  closing  in  gradually  upon 
all  sides,  soon  united  into  a  cold  drizzling  mist, 
which  was  not  dispelled  until  the  sun  had  crossed 
the  meridian. 

The  mist  had  scarcely  dispersed  when  the 
captain  again  made  his  appearance  on  deck,  and 
as  he  anxiously  swept  the  horizon  with  one  of 


160  THE    SMUGGLER. 

Dollond's    best   telescopes,   he   called    for   the 

T  of  the  watch,  and  sent  him  for  the 

first   lieutenant   and   the   master,  both  of  whom 

•iissinjj  the   merits  of  a  glass  of  grog, 

when  the  squeaking   voice  of  the   little   middy 

summoned  them  to  the  august  presence  of  their 

commander. 

In  those  days  a  captain  of  a  frigate  was  a 
great  man. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Logship,"  asked  the  captain, 
addressing  the  mastrr,  "  what  think  you  of  the 

"  1  .'ship,  "  very  fine  ; 

the  haze  beyond,"  pointing  to  the  fog  which  still 
lingered  in  the  offing,  "  is  all  for  heat.  \Vo 
shall  have  the  sea-breeze  creeping  along  the 
water,  like  a  shoal  of  young  mackerel,  pres- 
ent; 

41 1  hope  so,"  said  the  captain,  thoughtfully, 
"  for  the  glass  is  falling." 

The  idlers — and,  to  enlighten  the  reader,  I 
mean  by  that  term  the  fat  surgeon,  the  lean 
purser,  and  the  nondescript  marine  officers  — 
were  projecting  an  excursion  among  the  huts  of 
the  wild  natives,  when  the  skipper  made  his 
appearance.  "  There's  something  in  the  wind," 
observed  the  surgeon  in  a  subdued  tone  •,  "  I 
know  it  by  the  bristly  hairs  on  the  tip  of  the 
skipper's  smelling-bottle  ;  for  they  always  pro- 


THE    SMUGGLER.  161 

ject  at  right  angles  with  the  mizen-mast  when 
his  mind  is  anxious.  I  don't  see  much  chance 
of  your  getting  on  shore  to-day." 

This  announcement  lengthened  the  visage  of 
the  marine  officers ;  the  last  of  the  wardroom 
stock  had  been  consumed  a  week  before,  and 
the  officers  were  now  upon  their  scanty  ship's 
allowance.  They  had  had  a  surfeit  of  lobscouse 
and  dog's  body ;  and  the  portly  doctor  was 
urging  the  first  lieutenant  to  press  the  necessity 
of  sending  on  shore  for  a  supply  of  water,  or 
holystones  and  sand,  or,  in  fact,  for  anything  his 
ingenuity  could  suggest  as  being  required  for 
the  use  of  his  Majesty,  when  the  captain  again 
made  his  appearance. 

"  What  cable  have  we  out,  Mr.  Logship  ?  " 
he  abruptly  demanded,  casting  his  anxious  eye 
along  the  rocky  boundary  of  the  roadstead, 
against  which  the  surf  was  still  breaking  with  a 
hollow  kind  of  noise,  although  the  sea  was  as 
calm  as  a  millpond. 

"  Half  a  cable  on  the  best  bower,  sir,"  ans- 
wered the  master. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  observed 
the  commander,  with  a  perplexed  air  and  in  an 
under-tone,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  yet  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  his  officers.  "  That 
barometer  never  yet  deceived  me  ;  it  is  one  of 
Troughton's  best,  and  although  the  aspect  of 
14* 


Iti'J  THE    SMUGGLER. 

the  weather  is  so  favorable,  the  quicksilver  con- 
tinues to  fall,  and  has  already  fallen  consider- 
ably below  *  Stormy/  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  it." 

Logship  did  not  reply,  for  his  reliance  on  the 
barometer  almost  equalled  that  of  the  captain, 
and  he  dreaded  to  offer  a  dissenting  opinion,  lest 
the  instrument  might  be  correct;  and  he  would 
then  lose  the  character  he  had  long  sustained  of 
being  the  best  living  mercury  in  the  ship  for 
measuring  the  changes  in  the  weather. 

Williamson,  the  captain,  was  not  the  man  to 
r  upon  a  case  of  emergency ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  was  remarkable  for  the  quickness  as 
well  as  the  accuracy  of  his  decision  ;  but  upon 
this  occasion  he  was  at  fault.  In  a  tropical  clime 
he  would  have  understood  it. 

He  descended  once  more  to  his  cabin,  but  as 
quickly  reappeared,  and  glancing  his  sharp  eye 
around  him,  exclaimed,  "  The  glass  is  still  fall- 
ing !  Mr.  Fearnought,  turn  the  hands  up  —  up 
anchor." 

Logship  now  quietly  slipped  down  to  take  a 
peep  at  the  barometer,  for,  as  the  weather  had 
so  settled  an  appearance,  he,  as  well  as  the  first 
lieutenant,  and  of  course  the  idlers,  began  to 
question  the  sanity  of  their  commander.  The 
doctor  was  commencing  what  he  intended  should 
be  a  rather  learned  disquisition  on  the  disorders 


THE    SMUGGLER.  163 

of  the  mind,  and  the  variety  of  cases  which  had 
fallen  under  his  notice,  when  the  little  master 
returned  from  the  cabin,  with  as  much  astonish- 
ment and  anxiety  depicted  in  his  weather-beaten 
countenance  as  the  captain's  exhibited.  "It's 
below  4  Very  Stormy,'  sir,"  shouted  Logship, 
"  and  the  sooner  we  get  the  ship  out  of  this 
rascally  roadstead  the  better  for  all  hands." 

At  this  moment,  a  wild-looking  subject  of  his 
Majesty  came  paddling  up  to  the  side  of  the 
frigate,  in  a  wretched-looking  cockle-shell  of  a 
canoe,  which  the  natives  dignified  by  the  title  of 
a  boat.  A  greasy-looking  letter  was  handed  up 
the  gangway,  addressed  to  the  "  captain  or 
commanding  officer  of  any  of  his  Majesty's 
cruisers  on  the  coast ; "  and  after  passing  through 
the  different  gradations  prescribed  by  the  eti- 
quette of  a  man-of-war,  it  was  delivered  to  the 
captain,  who,  thinking  only  of  his  barometer, 
and  the  importance  of  getting  the  ship  under 
weigh,  cheered  the  men  at  the  capstan,  and 
thrust  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  without  looking 
at  the  superscription  or  breaking  the  seal. 

Captain  Williamson,  of  his  Majesty's  ship 
Palmyra,  was  not  what  the  ladies  would  have 
called  a  pretty  fellow,  for  he  had  nothing  effem- 
inate in  either  his  person  or  manner.  He  was 
a  fine  dashing-looking  sailor,  not  more  than 
thirty  years  of  age,  with  the  exterior  of  a  gen- 


164  THE    SMUGGLER. 

tleman,  and  the  bearing  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  command,  yet  free  from  the  slightest  particle 
of  hauteur.  His  projecting  forehead  overhung 
a  pair  of  sharp  gra  i  hich  twinkled  rest- 

lessly beneath  loni:  shaggy  eyebrows  ;  his  aqui- 
line nose  was  so  pliant,  that  it  almost  bent  witli 
nt  of  his  features,  and  when  he 
smiled  it  was  curved  like  the  beak  of  an  ea^le. 
It  has  already  been  observed  that  nature  had, 
strangely  enough,  placed  upon  the  very  tip  of 
this  proboscis  a  little  clump  of  long  black  hair, 
which,  sensible  of  the  slightest  passion  of  his 
i,  projected  like  the  quills  of  the  fretful  por- 
cupine; and  at  such  moments  it  wa 
advisable  by  those  who  knew  him  well  to  give 
him  a  clear  berth.  His  mouth  was  well  formed, 
though  rather  small ;  and  a  professed  advertising 
dentist  would  have  placed  some  value  on  the 
head  of  the  noble  captain  for  the  sake  of  his 
teeth.  II»-  was  tall,  and,  unlike  sailors  in  gen- 
eral, he  did  not  stoop ;  on  the  contrary,  he  held 
his  head  as  erect  as  a  life-guardsman.  His 
bronzed  complexion  denoted  the  ever-varying 
climes  to  which  he  Had  been  exposed  ;  and,  like 
most  people  who  have  good  teeth,  he  contracted 
a  habit  of  laughing,  which  threw  into  his  features 
a  kind  of  continual  smile,  as  if  the  mind  within 
was  all  sunshine. 

At  length  the  anchor  was  hove  a  short  stay 


THE  'SMUGGLER.  165 

peak ,  the  topsails  were  sheeted  home,  and  the 
yards  were  braced  contrariwise  to  swing  the 
ship.  The«capstan  was  again  manned,  and  the 
commander  descended  once  more  to  look  at  the 
weather-glass.  The  quicksilver  had  fallen  to  a 
startling  degree.  Even  Torricelli,  the  inventor 
of  barometers,  might  have  been  himself  puzzled 
on  the  occasion. 

At  length  the  frigate  was  under  weigh,  and 
stretched  out  to  sea  under  a  light  breeze,  and 
with  all  sail  set.  Williamson  and  the  master 
looked  at  each  other,  and  then  at  the  sky,  which 
was  now  beautifully  bright,  and  then  at  the  hori- 
zon, which  was  clear  and  serene  ;  and  the  dis- 
trust in  their  features  was  manifest  and  amusing. 
As  soon,  however,  as  Fearnought  could  absent 
himself  from  the  quarter-deck,  he  descended 
the  companion-ladder,  and  made  straight  for  the 
captain's  cabin,  where  the  first  object  that  at- 
tracted his  notice  was  a  very  small  bright  speck 
on  the  side  of  the  deck,  which  upon  further 
examination  was  discovered  to  be  quicksilver  ; 
and  underneath  the  ball  of  the  barometer  he 
perceived  a  small  hole,  thrown  which  the  min- 
eral fluid  had  gradually  and  imperceptibly  oozed. 
Fearnought  returned  to  the  quarter-deck  with  a 
broad  grin,  which  startled  the  commander  al- 
most as  much  as  the  barometer  had  done,  until 
the  cause  was  explained  ;  and  never  was  any 


1G6  Tin:  SMUGGLER. 

man  more  delighted  at  a  fracture,  which  at  any 
other  time,  and  under  any  other  circumstances, 
would  have  very  much  annoyed  .the  gallant 

tin. 

It  is  a  common  saying  —  and,  generally 
.king,  a  true  one  —  that  sailors  can  turn 
their  hands  to  anything  ;  and  there  is  one  pecu- 
liar feature  in  their  professional  career,  which, 
if  accurately  noted,  will  in  no  small  degree  ac- 
count for  the  ingenuity  thus  observable  in  their 
character.  On  shore  we  ha\  in  instruc- 

tor at  our  elbow,  or  a  means  of  arriving  at  o 
solution  of  our  difficulties ;  but  on  board  ship 
we  are  cut  off  from  any  such  aid,  and  when  left 
to  ourselves,  w<-  naturally  turn  inwardly,  as  it 
were,  to  our  own  resources,  and  thus  acquire 
by  degrees  a  habit  of  contrivance,  by  which  we 
;n  to  surmount  any  little  difficulty 
that  may  impede  our  progress.  From  this  habit 

iso  derive  self-confidence,  —  I  do  not  mean 
self-conceit,  —  which  enables  us  to  face  diffi- 
culty, instead  of  shrinking  from  it.  Mental 
energies  are  often  called  forth,  which  might 
have  otherwise  laiff dormant;  and  although  the 
events  that  led  to  their  development  might  be 
trivial,  the  mind  was  prepared  in  a  measure  to 
contend  with  more  important  casualties  here- 
after. I  once  knew  a  young  midshipman,  who 
upon  one  occasion,  by  his  persevering  ingenuity, 


THE    SMUGGLER.  167 

eventually  overcame  an  obstacle  which  at  one 
time  threatened  to  conquer  him  ;  and  this  single 
instance  so  delighted  his  commander  as  to  pro- 
duce a  feeling  which  had  a  considerable  influ- 
ence on  the  future  destiny  of  the  young  aspirant. 

Williamson  descended  to  his  cabin,  and  found 
the  quicksilver  rolling  along  the  deck  in  a  thou- 
sand particles,  as  the  ship  careened  to  the  wind. 
His  little  middies  soon  gathered  it  together,  and 
as  Williamson  was  a  mechanic  in  his  way  —  for 
he  could  take  a  watch  to  pieces,  and  put  it  to- 
gether again,  build  a  ship  upon  a  scale  of  an 
inch  to  a  foot,  mend  a  lock  as  well  as  the  ar- 
morer, hoop  a  cask  as  well  as  the  cooper,  or 
apply  a  tourniquet  or  open  a  vein  as  well  as  the 
doctor  —  of  course  he  could  mend  his  own 
barometor  ;  and  so  he  did. 

At  a  little  before  dusk  that  afternoon,  Wil- 
iiamson,  in  drawing  his  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  drew  along  with  it  the  greasy  letter  to 
which  we  have  elsewhere  alluded,  and  it  was 
nearly  blown  overboard.  The  midshipman  on 
watch  picked  it  up,  and  handed  it  to  him.  Wil- 
liamson smiled  at  his  own*  forgetfulness,  but 
looked  very  grave  when  he  read  the  letter :  it 
ran  thus  — 

"  A  noted  smuggler,  schooner-rigged,  with  a 
tanned  topsail,  will  leave  Flushing  on  or  about 
the  25th  instant,  with  a  cargo  of  spirits  and 


168  THE    SMUGGLER. 

tobacco,  and  may  be  expected  on  the  western 
coast  of  Ireland  to-morrow  night.  She  is 
painted  black,  with  a  patch  of  brown  canvass  in 
her  mainsail.  She  may  be  turned  into  a  sloop 
or  a  lugger,  and  is  provided  with  a  narrow  strip 
of  painted  canvass  to  represent  port-holes. 
She  has  fifteen  hundred  bales  of  tobacco  on 
board,  and  her  ground  tier  consists  of  hollands 
and  brandy.  It  is  expected  that  she  will  at- 
tempt a  landing  in  the  Mai  bay,  near  Mutton 
Isian 

Williamson  read  the  letter  to  his  flrst  lieuten- 
ant and  to  the  officer  of  the  watch,  and  the 
I  hailed  the  man  at  the  mast-head  to  keep  a 
sharp  look-out ;  while  the  signal  midshipman 
was  sent  aloft  with  a  telescope,  to  sweep  the 
horizon  before  night  came  on.  The  frigate 
then  stood  in  for  the  land,  and,  when  within  a 
safe  distance  from  it,  she  was  hove-to  under 
easy  sail,  with  her  head  off  shore. 

Towards  midnight  the  breeze  gradually 
freshened,  and  if  the  smiling  aspect  of  the 
weather  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  sinking  ba- 
rometer on  the  other,  had  puzzled  Williamson 
that  morning,  there  could  be  little  doubt  on  the 
subject  now ;  for  the  wind  had  that  hollow 
mournful  sound,  as  it  rattled  through  the  blocks 
and  cordage,  which  only  the  accustomed  ear  of 
a  sailor  could  truly  identify  as  a  certain  harbin- 


THE    SMUGGLER.  169 

ger  of  bad  weather.  The  small  drizzling  rain 
that  fell  served  rather  to  feed  the  wind,  and  the 
squalls  which  rushed  suddenly  down  the  moun- 
tain valleys  kept  the  anxious  eye  of  the  officer 
of  the  watch  on  his  weather-beam. 

At  daybreak  the  breeze  became  more  steady, 
and  Williamson,  in  his  short  round  Flushing 
jacket,  with  a  gold  loop  upon  each  shoulder  to 
denote  his  rank,  went  up  to  the  masthead,  to 
reconnoitre  with  his  spyglass  the  creeks  and 
bays  which  indented  that  dangerous  part  of  the 
coast ;  but  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  a  vessel 
of  any  kind  to  be  seen  ;  and  having  shared  al- 
ternately with  the  little  master  the  look-out  duty 
during  the  night,  he  ordered  a  sharp  eye  to  be 
kept  all  round,  and  descending  to  his  cabin, 
threw  himself  on  his  cot,  and  slept  soundly  for 
a  couple  of  hours. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  look-out  man  at  the 
fore  top-gallant  mast-head  reported  "  a  strange 
sail  on  the  weather-bow."  The  captain  started 
from  his  couch,  for  the  welcome  sound  had 
reached  his  quick  ear  ;  and  in  an  instant  every 
one  was  in  motion.  It  was  known  throughout 
the  ship  that  the  letter  which  the  skipper  re- 
ceived conveyed  information  from  the  agent  at 
Flushing,  that  a  smuggler  would  attempt  to 
land  upon  that  part  of  the  coast.  The  crew, 
therefore,  who  were  at  breakfast,  flew  up  the 
15 


170  THE    SMUGGLER. 

hatchways  ;  the  captains  of  the  tops  were  al 
ready  half-way  up  the  rigging  ;  and  even  the 
portly  doctor  and  the  marine  officers  left  their 
hot  rolls  to  join  in  the  excitement  of  the  scene, 
nong  the  most  nimble  of  those  who  ran  up 
the  ratlines  of  the  rigging  on  that  occasion  was 
Williamson  himself,  who  was  soon  perched  on 
the  topmast-crosstrees,  balancing  himself,  as  the 
ship  heeled  over,  with  one  hand  for  the  king 
and  the  other  for  himself.  Williamson  went 
aloft,  not  that  he  mistrusted  any  of  his  officers, 
but  because  he  was  anxious  to  judge,  from  a 
single  glance  of  his  own  keen  eye,  what  the 
stranger  looked  like,  how  she  was  standing,  and 
what  should  be  done  ;  but  scarcely  had  he  got 
his  telescope  to  bear  upon  her,  when  a  sudden 
squall  obscured  her  from  his  view. 

Prompt  in  his  decision,  Williamson  descended 
from  the  mast-head,  and  calculating  that  the 
stranger  could  have  hardly  made  the  Palmyra 
out  before  the  squall  came  on,  he  ordered  her 
to  be  put  on  the  other  tack,  and  then  proceeded 
to  disguise  her  in  the  following  manner :  —  the 
fore  and  mizen  top-gallant  masts  were  sent  on 
deck,  while  the  maintop-gallant  yard  was  left 
across  ;  the  sail  loosed,  and  sheeted  home  in  a 
slovenly  manner.  The  courses  were  reefed  to 
make  them  look  shallow  ;  the  quarter  boats  low- 
ered to  a  level  with  the  gunwale  ;  and  the  main- 


THE    SMUGGLER.  171 

deck  guns  were  run  in  and  housed  :  a  long  strip 
of  canvass,  painted  a  light  brown,  and  varnished, 
was  then  carefully  spread  over  the  portholes ;  a 
few  trusses  of  hay  were  placed  in  the  main- 
chains  ;  and  the  wheels  of  a  carriage,  which 
Williamson  kept  always  ready,  were  lashed  in 
the  fore-chains.  After  all  this  was  done,  the 
practised  eye  of  even  a  close  observer  might 
have  taken  his  Majesty's  ship  Palmyra  for  a 
homeward-bound  West  Indiaman  or  a  clumsy 
transport. 

As  soon  as  the  squall  passed  to  leeward,  the 
stranger  was  again  seen  on  the  weather  quarter, 
and  the  signal  midshipman  reported  her  to  be  a 
schooner,  with  only  her  fore  and  aft  sails  set, 
standing  in  for  Mutton  Island,  which,  with  its 
single  small  tower,  the  ruin  of  a  religious  tem- 
ple, lay  about  nine  miles  ahead  of  her. 

"  I  think  we  shall  do  that  fellow,  if  he  don't 
make  us  out  before  we  can  get  him  well  on  our 
weather  quarter,"  observed  the  captain  to  little 
Logship. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  the  master  ;  "  I 
don't  much  like  the  look  of  the  weather.  Last 
night's  moon  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  lump 
of  butter  in  a  bowl  of  burgou.  We  shan't  want 
for  wind  when  the  flood  makes  —  " 

"  So  much  the  better,"  sharply  answered 
Williamson,  who.  sanguine  in  all  things,  was 


172  THE    SMUGGLER. 

MOU-  impatient  with  Logship,  who  had  the  name 
of  being  a  croaker  in  the  ship  ;  "  the  devil's  in 
the  dice  if  the  Palmyra  can't  outcarry  that  little 
cockle-shell  yonder,  let  us  but  once  get  in  be- 
•n  him  and  the  land.  You  know  of  old 
what  our  frigate  can  do,  especially  when  she 
gets  a  foot  or  two  of  the  main-sheet." 

Logship  was  muttering  something  in  reply, 
but  in  so  subdued  a  tone  that  only  detached 
words  could  be  caught,  such  as  "  allowing  that 
—  blows  hard  —  soon  dark  —  if  we  could  — ," 
laving  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  hypothetical 
particle  ;  when  the  little  man  was  startled  by 
the  sharp  tone  in  which  the  captain  abruptly 
inquired,  "  How  is  the  moon,  Mr.  Logship  ?  " 

M  Full  moon  to-night,  sir,  at  ten  o'clock." 

"Ha!  that's  good,  at  all  events, "  observed 
Williamson. 

44  Yes,"  replied  Logship,  "  provided  she  shows 
her  face." 

44  Logship,"  said  the  captain,  turning  round, 
and  looking  him  steadfastly  in  the  face,  "  will 
you  for  once  in  your  life  look  at  the  bright  side 
of  things ;  or  if  you  will  not,  pray  do  me  the 
favor  to  allow  the  moon  to  do  so." 

Logship  was  silent. 

Little  Logship  was  exactly  four  feet  eight 
inches  tall,  and  his  extreme  breadth  measured 
at  least  two-thirds  of  his  height ;  he  had  a  very 


THE    SMUGGLER.  173 

*arge  head,  with  very  small  inquisitive  eyes,  and 
his  cheeks  were  round  and  plump,  and  very 
rubicund  ;  but  whether  the  last  was  caused  by 
the  bracing  sea-air,  or  the  stiff  nor'westers  he 
too  frequently  indulged  in,  is  scarcely  a  matter 
worth  speculating  on  now.  Although  he  en- 
tered his  Majesty's  service  from  a  Sunderland 
collier,  he  always  wore  blue  cloth  pantaloons 
and  Hessian  boots  with  large  tassels ;  he  con- 
sidered them  the  distinguishing  mark  of  a  gen- 
tleman. He  was  also  particular  in  wearing 
gloves,  although  his  little  horny  hands  had  been 
in  former  days  better  acquainted  with  the  tar- 
bucket  than  the  sextant.  Logship  was  never- 
theless a  thorough-bred  seaman,  a  good  plain 
navigator,  as  far  as  plane  or  Mercator  sailing 
went.  He  could  distinguish  the  Ursa  Major 
from  the  Ursa  Minor  ;  and  he  could  steer  the 
Palmyra,  when  scuddirg  in  the  heaviest  gale  of 
wind,  within  a  point  of  the  compass. 

The  little  master's  peculiarities  often  amused 
his  captain ;  they  had  sailed  together  for  many 
years,  and  although  the  skipper  knew  that  there 
were  times  when  it  would  have  puzzled  Log- 
ship,  even  in  his  Hessian  boots,  to  walk  a  plank 
without  diverging  to  his  right  or  left,  still  he  also 
knew  that  it  was  only  when  the  frigate  was 
safely  moored  in  a  land-locked  harbor  that  he 
ever  indulged  beyond  the  king's  allowance. 
15* 


171  THE    SMUGGLER. 

The  signal  midshipman,  who  was  stationed 
aloft  to  keep  his  eye  on  the  schooner,  now  re- 
ported that  she  was  shaking  a  reef  out  of  her 
mainsail,  and  setting  her  g&f£tDpMul. 

••  \Vhat  color  do  you  make  her  gafF-topsail  ?  " 
inquired  the  captain. 

"  It's  a  tanned  sail,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  low  is  she  painted  ?  " 

••  Black,  sir,"  answered  the  midshipman ; 
"  and  she  has  a  patch  of  brown  canvass  in  her 
mainsail." 

11  Very  well,"  replied  the  captain.  "  Now 
then.  Mr.  Fearnought,  'l>out  ship  ;  up  top-gallant 
f  out  ;  make  all  the  sail  the 
ship  will  bear.  That  fellow  has  made  us  out, 
and  we  shall  have  enough  to  do  to  get  within 
shot  of  him  before  dark.  Pipe  the  hammocks 
down,  and  let  the  chests  and  shot-racks  be  triced 
up  underneath  them  ;  give  the  ship  all  the  elas- 
ticity 

"  Well,  Logship,"  asked  the  captain,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  her  now  ?  — shall  we  have  her 
or  not  ?  " 

"  Don't  know,"  answered  the  master  ;  "  those 
black  little  devils  that  lie  so  low  on  the  water 
slippery  heels,  and  when  they  get  into 
smooth  water  and  a  steady  breeze,  'twould  puz- 
zle a  remora  to  get  hold  of  them." 

"A  what?  "  asked  Williamson. 


THE    SMUGGLER.  175 

"  A  remora,  sir,"  replied  Logship,  chuckling 
at  the  ignorance  of  the  skipper. 

"  What  sort  of  animal  may  that  be,  Mr.  Log- 
ship  ?  "  asked  the  captain. 

"  Ah  !  sir,"  said  Logship,  "  you  have  never 
been  in  the  Mozambique  Channel,  or  you'd 
know  what  a  remora  is.  Well,  sir,  it's  a  suck- 
ing fish  they  bend  on  to  a  line ;  and  then  off 
the  little  devil  starts  with  the  speed  of  a  deep 
sea-lead,  and  the  moment  it  twigs  a  turtle,  it 
fixes  itself  by  its  suckers  to  the  calipash,  and 
sticks  to  it  like  a  leech,  until  you  haul  it  on 
board  ;  and  I'm  blessed  if  that  a'nt  a  useful  sort 
of  a  shipmate  to  have  on  board  when  one's  six 
upon  four." 

The  chase  had  now  commenced  in  earnest ; 
every  possible  effort  that  the  ingenuity  of  the 
officers  could  invent  was  resorted  to,  to  make 
the  Palmyra  sail  ;  and  at  nightfall  the  schooner, 
although  but  a  mere  speck  on  the  horizon,  was 
near  enough  to  be  just  visible  through  the  night- 
glass,  but  only  to  one  man  in  the  ship  —  that 
man  was  the  captain. 


It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  (so  as  to 
convey  an  accurate  idea  to  shore-going  people) 
the  excitement  on  board  a  man-of-war  when  en- 


176  THE    SMUGGLER. 


in  a  chase.     The  quick,  loud  cry  from 
the  masthead  of  "A  sail,  a  sail ! "  is  followed  by 
a  simultaneous  shout  along  the  lower  deck  ;  all, 
v    one,    without    reference  to  occupation, 
age,  or  rank,  rush  on  deck  :  for  although   mer- 
ry feelings  were  forgotten  at  the   moment, 
i  rich  smuggler  was  not  less  an  object  of 
importance  than  the  legitimate  trader  of  France 
or  Holland  would  have  been  in  the  war  time : 
and  then   follow  the  anxious  —  u  What 

does  she  look  like  ?  — Is  she  large  or  small  — 
square-rigged  or  fore-and-aft ;  does  she  look 
lofty?"  and  the  quick  eyes  of  th«i  mariners 
scan  the  horizon,  to  gather  from  it  how  far  the 
stranger  may  be  oil'.  \\ C  tlu-n  come  to  the 
active,  bustling  preparations  for  the  chase. 
Sails  are  loosed  and  spread  like  magic  to  catch 
the  welcome  breeze  ;  the  cordage  flies  through 
the  blocks  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning;  and 
presently  the  stately  ship  bends  to  the  favoring 
gale,  and  the  sailors  almost  bless  their  ship  be- 
cause she  bears  herself  gallantly  through  the 
water:  and  then  come  the  alternate  moments 
of  hope  and  fear,  varying  with  the  breeze, 
which  at  one  time  favors  the  pursuer,  and  at 
another  time  the  pursued.  Thus  the  naturally 
buoyant  feelings  of  the  man-of-war's  men  are 
kept  in  an  almost  thrilling  state  of  apprehen- 
sion and  uncertainty -^  onq  pf  the  few  instances 


THE    SMUGGLER.  177 

wherein  suspense  is  the  reverse  of  being 
painful. 

Williamson  had  taken  his  station  for  the  night 
on  the  forecastle,  and  his  eye  was  seldom  re- 
moved from  his  night-telescope.  At  one  time 
the  Palmyra  seemed  to  gain  on  the  schooner ; 
at  another  she  seemed  to  fall  astern  of  the  chase. 
Towards  midnight  the  breeze  freshened  so  much 
as  to  require  another  reef  in  the  top-sails,  and  this 
duty  was  performed  with  the  alacrity  of  seamen 
who  knew  the  value  of  seconds  at  such  a  moment. 
But  the  yards  were  scarcely  trimmed  again,  when 
the  wind  suddenly  changed,  and  threw  the  chase 
three  points  in  the  wind's  eye  of  the  frigate.  She 
was  about  six  miles  off,  and  had  the  advantage 
of  smooth  water  from  her  affinity  with  the  land. 

"  Curse  that  fellow's  luck  !  "  impatiently  ex- 
claimed Williamson  ;  "  he'd  have  been  ours  by 
daylight :  we  were  coming  up  with  him  hand- 
over-hand." 

"  The  breeze  is  unsteady,  sir,"  observed 
Fearnought.  "  No  higher,  my  man,  no  higher ; 
your  jib-sheet  is  chattering  like  a  monkey  —  it 
may  veer  round  again  more  in  our  favor.  I 
say,  Mr.  Logship,  what  is  that  man  about  at  the 
nelm  ?  tell  him  to  keep  his  sleepy  eye  on  the 
weather-leech  of  the  mainsail,  will  you  ?  " 

In  this  way  Fearnought  continued  alternately 
speaking  to  the  captain  and  directing  the  steer- 


178  THI:  SMUGGLER. 

of  the  ship,  which  now  labored  under  rather 
more  sail  than  it  was  prudent  to  carry.  In  a 
short  time  she  fell  off  three  points  more,  which 
threw  the  schooner  on  her  beam. 

"  Now,  then,  Fearnought,"  exclaimed  the 
captain,  "  ready  about." 

"  She  won't  stay,  sir,"  said  Fearnought. 

"  She  must  stay,  sir,"  said  the  captain. 

"  What,  in  this  heavy  chop  of  a  lu>:ul  sea, 
sir  ?  "  asked  Fearnought. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Fearnought,"  replied  the  captain 
in  a  determined  tone  ;  "  if  you  can't  make  the 
Palmyra  stay,  I  will ;  "  and  relinquishing  his 
night-glass  to  the  f«  icutenant,  William- 

son walked  aft,  and  took  his  station  on  the 
weather-side  of  the  quarter-deck. 

Every  officer  and  man  wore  now  at  their  sta- 
tion;  for  their  commander's  :  ice  would 
be  of  but  little  avail  if  they  were  not  prompt  in 
obeying  his  orders.  They  had  each  their  own 
separate  duty  to  perform,  while  he  kept  his  eye 
on  the  ship,  watching  a  favorable  moment. 

Upon  a  sudden  the  word  of  command  was 
given,  "  Hard  down  —  helm-a-lee."  Away  flew 
the  fore  and  jib-sheets ;  and  the  frigate,  released 
from  the  pressure  of  her  head-canvass,  flew 
nobly  -up  into  the  wind's  eye  in  gallant  style. 
For  one  anxious  moment  she  remained  station- 
ary, and  i*  was  very  doubtful  which  way  she 


THE    SMUGGLER.  179 

would  cant.  But  her  commander  was  not  inat- 
tentive to  the  motion  of  the  sea  at  such  a  mo- 
ment ;  he  had  his  sharp  eye  fixed  on  the 
weather-leech  of  the  fore-topsail,  and  by  bra- 
cing to  a  little,  but  very  little,  he  gave  the  ship 
a  fresh  impulse,  and  she  swung  round  with  her 
head  once  more  towards  the  schooner. 

The  noble   frigate,  under  treble-reefed  top- 
sails and  courses,  rose  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
waves,  and  darting  along  the  troubled  surface 
of  the  ocean,  proudly  dashed  the  foamy  spray 
from  her  bows,  as  if  conscious  that  the  eyes  of 
her  commander  were  on  her.     Then,  after  de- 
scending into  the  hollow  of  the  sea,  and  tottering 
for  a  moment  under  the  mighty  force  of  the 
waves  which  broke  over  her,  she  rose  again  to 
the  margin  of  the  deep,  and,  under  the  pressure 
r   well-trimmed  canvass,  skimmed   once 
along  the  wide  waste  of  waters,  as  if  rc- 
1  to  sustain  at  this  critical   moment  the 
cter  she  had  long  borne  of  being  one  of 
?st  sea-boats  in  the  service, 
r  four  hours  both   vessels  carried  on  fa- 
ly  through  the  gale  ;  tacking  alternately, 
.bending  and  straining  to  the  frequent  squalls 
h  came  off  the  land.     Day  was  now  begin- 
,  to  break  feebly  through  the  folds  of  night, 
the  gray  mist  hung  sullenly  over  the  land 
and  almost  obscured  the  dreary  coast. 


180  THE    SMUGGLER. 

Williamson  stood  erect  upon  a  quarter-deck 
carronade,  holding  on  by  the  weather-hummock 
rail,  and  watching,  with  calm  yet  intense  inter- 
i  dark  squall  which  was  gathering  on  the 
leebeam  ;  for  upon  the  issue  of  that  squall  he 
well  knew  the  fate  of  the  schooner,  and  possibly 
that  of  his  own  vessel,  might  depend.  The 
officers  and  crew,  at  their  respective  posts,  with 
well-disciplined  silence,  steadfastly  eyed  every 
motion  of  their  commander  with  that  firm  reli- 
ance his  seamanlike  skill  was  calculated  to  in- 
spire ;  for  the\  had  NTVed  long  and  happily 
under  his  command  ;  but  little  could  tin 
this  •:  tbftf  from  the  tranquillity 

Ahetlier  the  toergy  t.f  his  mind 
was  at  all  disturbed  by  the  change  which  the 
gathering  squall  den< 

At  last  the  tremendous  blast  came,  "  like  a 
mighty  rushing  wind,"  with  fearful  violence. 
The  noble  frigate  trembled  for  a  moment  under 
the  shock  of  the  hurricane,  and  was  thrown  on 
her  beam-ends.  The  tacks  and  sheets  snapped 
like  spun-yarn,  the  sails  flapped  about  the  masts 
and  rigging,  and  the  sudden  noise  they  made 
resembled  the  report  of  cannon. 

In  five  minutes  the  squall  had  passed  away. 
The  ship  rose  again  to  her  bearings,  and  her 
crew  were  actively  engaged  bending  new  sails. 
The  rain  now  came  down  in  torrents,  and  the 


THE    SMUGGLER.  181 

hurricane  of  the  moment  was  succeeded  by  a 
dead  calm. 

The  schooner,  who  was  lost  sight  of  during 
the  squall,  appeared  again,  without  a  stitch  of 
sail  set ;  and  both  vessels  lay  rolling  about  in 
the  trough  of  the  sea,  almost  within  gun-shot  of 
each  other  —  helpless  and  partly  dismantled. 

In  trying  moments  Williamson  always  con- 
sulted his  first  lieutenant ;  and  it  would  be  well 
for  some  of  our  young  naval  commanders  if 
they  followed  the  same  prudent  example. 

"  Fearnought,"  said  the  captain,  "  our  cut- 
ters would  reach  that  fellow  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Fearnought ;  "  but  if 
in  the  mean  time  the  breeze  should  spring  up, 
he  will  get  the  start  of  us  while  we  heave  to,  to 
pick  up  our  boats." 

"  True,"  said  Williamson  with  an  anxious 
expression,  "  I  confess  I  neither  like  the  look 
of  the  weather  nor  our  affinity  with  this  rascally 
coast."  Then,  turning  to  the  master,  he  in- 
quired — 

u  How  is  the  tide,  Mr.  Logship  ?  " 

"  Low  water  at  ten  o'clock,  sir,"  replied  the 
master  ;  adding,  as  if  to  draw  the  attention  of 
the  captain  to  the  danger,  and  anxious  to  be 
included  in  the  consultation,  "  Mutton  Island 
bears  S.  by  E.  two  short  leagues." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  ship  in  a 
16 


182  THE    SMUGGLER. 

much  more  critical  position  than  that  in  which 
the  Palmyra  was  now  placed.  Williamson,  in 
the  eagerness  of  the  chase,  had  allowed  himself 
to  be  drawn  farther  into  the  Mai  Bay  than  the 
safety  of  his  frigate  justified  ;  but,  in  so  settled 
a  gale,  who  could  have  predicted  that  so  sudden 
a  squall  would  have  sprung  up  from  almost  the 
opposite  point  of  the  compass,  fearful  in  its  con- 
sequences ? 

Fearnought  would  have  hinted  to  Williamson 
the  risk  he  incurred,  but  we  have  seen  that  he 
hail  already  received  a  rebuff  from  his  captain 
on  the  tacking  question  ;  and  little  Logship  re- 
frained from  doing  what  would  have  been  after 
all  but  his  duty,  under  the  foolish  apprehension 
of  being  again  jeered  at  for  his  croaking  pro- 
pensity. Williamson  paced  the  quarter-deck  in 
a  thoughtful  mood  ;  —  the  broken  water  along 
the  shore  was  distinctly  visible,  as  it  dashed 
against  the  bold  promontory  with  a  noise  re- 
sembling distant  thunder  ;  the  rain  still  continued 
to  fall  in  torrents  ;  and  there  were  now  occa- 
sional flashes  of  lightning,  which,  with  the  in- 
creasing swell,  denoted  the  coming  storm. 

"  Fearnought,"  said  Williamson,  "  keep  your 
eye  on  the  sheets  and  halyards —  let  good  ones 
be  rove  and  bent — we  may  require  them  before 
we  sleep." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  replied  the  first  lieutenant. 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


183 


The  schooner  was  preparing  to  get  her 
sweeps  out,  when  the  dreaded  breeze  sprung  up 
from  the  S.  S.  W.,  which  threw  her  on  the  lee- 
bow  of  the  frigate  ;  and  now  the  eventful  mo- 
ment to  both  vessels  had  arrived.  It  was  possi- 
ble that  they  might  weather  the  island.  The 
frigate  had  the  better  chance,  being  a  little  more 
to  windward.  At  any  other  time  of  tide,  the 
schooner  could  have  run  betwen  the  island  and 
the  main,  for  although  the  channel  was  intricate, 
her  captain  knew  every  rock  in  it ;  but  now  he 
had  no  such  alternative.  Both  vessels  were 
again  under  as  heavy  a  press  of  sail  as  the  al- 
ready increasing  gale  would  permit  them  to 
carry,  and  the  crew  almost  held  in  their  breath, 
as  every  succeeding  wave  carried  the  ship 
nearer  to  the  lee-shore.  The  gallant  frigate 
plunged  again  into  the  hollow  of  the  sea  —  her 
very  timbers  shook  under  the  pressure  of  her 
canvass  —  and  her  noble  commander  stood 
erect  and  resolute  at  his  former  station,  with  his 
eye  calmly  fixed  upon  the  breakers  under  the 
lee-bow,  over  which  the  sea  broke  in  long  suc- 
cessive waves  of  mountain  height. 

And  now  the. schooner  approached  so  near 
the  island  as  to  appear  from  the  frigate  to  be 
almost  in  the  midst  of  the  breakers. 

"  That  fellow,"  exclaimed  Williamson, "  car- 


184  THE    SMUGGLER. 

ries  through  it  in  gallant  style  ;  he  deserves 
better  fate  than  to  be  wrecked  or  captured." 

The  officers  and  crew  appeared  to  participate 

in  the  feelings  of  their  commander ;  for  every 

was  turned  towards  the  schooner,  and  their 

own  critical  position  seemed  to  be  almost  lost 

sight  of  in  the  interest  which  she  excited. 

"  Sharp  work,  Mr.  Fearnought,"  said  Wil- 
liamson to  his  first  lieutenant,  as  a  white  spray 
dashed  against  his  face  and  drenched  him  to 
the  skin.  "  The  old  craft  is  resolved  to  give 
us  a  sprinkling  this  morning." 

14  Not  the  first  time,  sir,"  answered  Fear- 
nought, laughingly,  for  he  had  already  had 
forty  such  seas  over  him  ;  —  "it  shows  the  old 
lady  is  walking  through  it,  sir." 

44  Yes,"  observed  Williamson  ;  "  but  I  wish 
the  old  lady  would  keep  her  favors  to  herself:  " 
then  addressing  the  helmsman,  —  "Luff!  my 
man,  —  lufF!  mind  your  steerage!  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Mr.  Fearnought,  if  that  fellow  yonder 
don't  weather  the  island,  we  have  no  business 
here.  If  he  but  once  touches  the  ground  in 
such  a  sea  as  this,  he'll  be  to  pieces  in  five 
minutes.  —  Have  all  ready  for  wearing  round 
at  the  moment." 

Fearnought  had  scarcely  time  to  answer, 
when  Williamson  exclaimed,  "  She's  struck  !  " 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


185 


All  eyes  were  instantly  directed  towards  the 
schooner,  who  appeared  to  be  in  the  midst  of 
the  breakers,  with  the  sea  breaking  over  her, 
and  at  that  moment  on  her  broadside,  —  but  she 
rights  once  more,  and  weathers  the  threatened 
danger. 

It  was  very  beautiful  to  see  the  small  sylph- 
like  schooner,  at  this  instant  so  fragile-looking, 
and  to  all  appearance  so  helpless,  forcing  her 
way  through  the  breakers,  at  one  moment  lifted 
with  the  apparent  lightness  of  a  feather  to  the 
very  top  of  the  wave,  and  at  another  suddenly 
sunk  into  the  hollow  of  the  sea  and  wholly  ob- 
scured from  view.  There  were  times  when 
only  a  portion  of  the  white  sail  of  the  tiny 
craft  was  visible,  and  then  it  might  have  been 
easily  mistaken  for  the  wing  of  the  stormy  pe- 
trel, so  light  and  beautiful  did  it  appear  on  the 
troubled  surface  of  the  ocean. 

The  vessels  were  now  within  a  mile  of  each 
other,  and  the  schooner  had  already  weathered 
the  low  reef  of  rocks  which  ran  out  from  the 
island.  The  frigate,  like  an  angry  leviathan, 
eager  and  impatient,  dashed  the  broad  foam 
from  her  bows,  under  which  the  broken  water 
almost  bubbled.  "Luff!  my  boy,  —  luff!" 
exclaimed  her  commander  to  tho  helmsman ; 
and  "Luff  it  is,  sir,"  was  tho  quick  reply. 
"  Luff  again  to  the  galo  !  "  continued  the  cap- 
16* 


186  THE    SMUGGLER. 

tain  ;  "  a  point  —  another  point !  —  Hold  on 
good  tacks  and  sheets, — full  and  by,  my  lad  — 
full  and  by,"  again  exclaimed  Williamson ;  and 
well  did  the  anxious  helmsman  discharge  his 
arduous  duty.  The  rocks  were  on  the  lee- 
beam  ;  another  anxious,  trying  moment,  and 
the  danger  was  cleared  —  the  bow  lines  were 
checked  —  the  main-sheet  was  eased  off — and 
the  stately  vessel,  grateful  for  being  released 
from  the  pressure  of  her  canvass,  then  sailed 
gallantly  onward  in  pursuit  of  her  chase  and 
towards  the  haven  she  had  only  left  the  day 
before. 

The  moment  the  danger  was  passed,  William- 
son ordered  the  bow-guns  to  be  cleared  away  ; 
and  when  ready,  a  shot  was  dropped  to  leeward 
of  the  chase,  and  the  small  storm  ensign  of  St. 
George  was  hoisted  at  the  peak.  But  the 
schooner  did  not  heed  it  or  show  any  flag  in 
return.  Williamson  then  ordered  the  shot  to 
be  fired  over  her.  "  Do  not,"  said  he  to  Fear- 
nought, "  strike  her  hull,  but  rather  cripple  the 
masts  and  rigging,  if  we  can." 

The  Palmyra  was  now  nearly  within  musket- 
shot  of  the  chase.  The  deck  of  the  latter 
seemed  deserted,  save  by  one  man,  who  took 
his  station  at  the  helm  ;  and  there  he  stood 
alone,  erect  and  undaunted,  steering  his  little 
vessel  through  the  danger  that  encompassed  him, 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


187 


with  a  countenance  as  free  from  fear  as  it  was 
singularly  placid  and  determined.  He  did  not 
once  alter  his  position,  nor  did  he  make  a  single 
effort  to  discern  whether  the  frigate  was  closing 
on  him  or  not.  There  the  old  man  stood,  a 
conspicuous  solitary  mark  for  the  small  arms  of 
the  marines. 

The  frigate  was  now  obliged  to  yaw  about  to 
avoid  running  over  the  schooner,  who  still  held 
on  her  course,  though  hailed  repeatedly  to 
shorten  sail.  The  marines  were  firing  volleys 
into  her,  but  still  there  stood  the  solitary  helms- 
man, after  each  succeeding  volley,  as  erect  and 
as  undaunted  as  before. 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  the  captain,  impa- 
tiently, "  is  there  no  one  can  knock  that  stub- 
born fellow  on  the  head  ?  " 

At  that  moment  a  shout  from  the  crew  an- 
nounced the  fatal  reply;  —  a  bullet  had  done  its 
duty  ;  —  it  had  pierced  the  back  of  the  skull. 
The  old  man  sprang  upwards  from  the  deck, 
and  then  fell  dead  at  the  wheel  of  his  little 
vessel. 

On  the  following  morning  the  sea  was  as 
tranquil  as  if  it  had  never  been  disturbed  ;  the 
sky  was  clear  and  serene  ;  the  waters  seemed 
refreshed  by  the  tempest ;  and  the  frigate,  with 
her  little  prize,  lay  in  apparent  sluggishi 


188  THE   SMUGGLER. 

though  they  were  reposing  from  their  previous 
labors. 

At  the  head  of  the  roadstead  lay  a  small 
fishing  hamlet,  which,  in  that  day,  consisted  of 
only  a  few  humble  dwellings,  so  rudely'con- 
structed  as  to  resemble  strange-looking  mounds 
of  earth  rather  than  the  wretched  tenements  of 
human  beings  ;  a  small  river,  after  winding  its 
course  from  the  neighboring  mountain  through 
a  deep  valley  or  ravine,  clothed  on  either  side 
with  the  wildest  verdure,  emptied  itself  into  the 
Atlantic  a  little  below  the  village,  and  a  small 
cove  inside  the  rude  breakwater  before  spoken 
of  afforded  a  welcome  asylum  for  the  boats  of 
the  fishermen. 

The  margin  of  the  sea  was  sprinkled  with 
many  of  those  picturesque-looking  little  vessels 
which  had  emerged  with  the  first  gray  streak 
of  morning  twilight  from  the  creeks  wherein 
they  had  sheltered  themselves  during  the  storm. 
Some  were  creeping  along  the  land  with  a  light 
partial  breeze,  which  barely  rippled  the  water ; 
while  others  lay  at  a  distance  upon  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  smooth  Atlantic,  with  their  white 
sails  glittering  in  the  brilliant  rays  of  the  morn- 
ing sun. 

The  stirring  events  of  the  previous  day  left 
those  on  board  the  frigate  sufficient  to  engage 
the  attention  of  both  officers  and  men.  The 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


189 


fore-works  of  the  ship  were  much  strained 
from  the  heavy  press  of  sail  that  had  been  car- 
ried on ;  it  was  even  feared  that  the  gammoning 
and  quick-work  was  injured  ;  and  the  bowsprit 
was  discovered  to  be  slightly  sprung  between 
the  knightheads. 

Fearnought  was  discharging  the  responsible 
duties  of  a  first  lieutenant  with  his  usual  sea- 
manlike  activity.  The  little  master  was  super- 
intending the  sails ;  the  fat  doctor  and  marine 
officers  were  on  shore  scouring  the  huts  of  the 
natives  for  something  in  the  shape  of  proven- 
der ;  and  the  only  idlers  on  board  the  Palmyra 
that  day  were  the  unfortunate  smugglers,  who 
gazed  about  them  in  dogged  silence,  stung  to 
their  heart's  core  at  having  been  captured  when 
within  an  hour's  sail  of  their  destined  beach. 

Towards  the  close  of  that  day  preparations 
were  made  for  committing  to  the  deep  the 
corpse  of  the  smuggler.  The  crew  of  the  first 
cutter  were  dressed  in  their  Sunday  suit,  and 
the  smugglers  were  permitted  to  take  a  last  sad 
view  of  their  brave  but  ill-fated  leader,  as  he 
lay  partly  sown  up  in  a  hammock. 

But  who  is  that  curly-headed  boy  who  throws 
himself  across  the  body  of  the  smuggler,  and 
in  silent  yet  convulsive  agony  presses  his  warm 
lips  against  the  cold  clammy  features  of  the 
dead  ? 


190  THE    SMUGGLER. 

This,  reader,  was  the  adopted  child  of  our 
departed  friend,  —  the  boy  he  had  sheltered  in 
liis  bosom,  and  to  whom  he  had  been  as  a 
father.  It  was  Hurry  Trcvillian. 

Oh !  how  beautiful,  and  yet  how  sorrowful,  it 
was  to  see  that  friendless  boy,  unknown  to  all 
around  him,  cling  to  the  lifeless  body  of  the 
only  protector  lie  had  ever  known  in  this  world, 
and  sob  in  all  the  bitterness  of  agonizing,  heart- 
rending grief,  as  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice, 
44  Kiss  me,  dear  papa." 

And  where  was  then  the  spirit  of  him  who 
had  looked  upon  that  dear  child  with  all  the 
love  and  pride  of  a  parent  ?  —  where  the  san- 
guine tone  of  confidence  with  which  he  had  told 
the  anxious  wife  that  this  trip,  if  well  ended, 
should  be  his  last  ?  Last,  did  he  say  ?  —  yes, 
he  said,  44  This  shall  be  my  last  voyage." 
Little  did  the  old  man  then  foresee  that  his 
swollen  corse  might  probably  be  thrown  in, 
after  the  ninth  day,  on  that  very  beach  where 
he  intended  to  run  his  cargo ! 

As  the  sun's  disk  was  sinking  into  the  horizon, 
the  body  of  the  smuggler  was  cautiously  low- 
ered into  the  boat ;  and  the  only  persons  per- 
mitted to  enter  her  were  Roderick,  the  mate  of 
the  smuggler,  and  Harry  Trevillian. 

The  assembled  officers  and  crew  stood  in 
meek  silence  uncovered  on  the  quarter-deck  of 


THE    SMUGGLER. 


191 


the  frigate,  and  the  captured  smugglers  were 
ranged  along  the  gangway.  The  crew  of  the 
boat  destined  to  tow  that  which  contained  the 
dead,  lay  on  their  oars  abreast  of  the  ship. 
The  body  rested  upon  gratings,  with  the  union 
flag  of  England  spread  over  it. 

The  captain  then  read  the  beautiful  and 
solemn  service  for  the  burial  of  the  dead,  and 
the  boat  pulled  silently  away  from  the  ship  to 
a  considerable  distance.  There  was  not  at  that 
moment  a  passing  cloud  in  the  studded  canopy 
of  heaven,  —  all  around  was  hushed  in  the 
silence  of  midnight,  —  the  tint  which  the  set- 
ting sun  had  left  was  still  faint  in  the  western 
horizon.  The  body  was  consigned  to  the 
waters  of  the  Atlantic,  while  the  stars  twinkled 
in  countless  myriads  overhead,  and  sparkled 
like  diamonds  on  the  broad  dark  surface  of  tho 
grave  of  THE  SMUGGLER. 


192 


TO   MY   MOTHER'S    BIBLE. 

WHAT  household  thoughts  around  thee,  as  their 

shrine, 

Cling  reverently!  —  of  anxious  looks  beguiled, 
My  mother's  eyes,  upon  thy  page  divine, 
Each  day  were  bent ;  —  her  accents,  gravely 

mild, 

Breathed  out  thy  lore  :  whilst  I,  a  dreamy  child, 
Wandered  on  breeze-like  fancies  oft  away, 
To  some  lone  tuft  of  gleaming  spring-flowers 

wild, 

Some  fresh-discovered  nook  for  woodland  play, 
Some   secret   nest  :  —  yet   would   the   solemn 

Word 
At  times,  with  kindlings  of  young  wonder  heard, 

Fall  on  my  wakened  spirit,  there  to  be 
A  aeed  not  lost ;  —  for  which,  in  darker  years, 
O  book  of  Heaven  !  I  pour,  with  grateful  tears, 
Heart  blessings  on  the  holy  dead  and  thee ! 


REAPIHG  THiE 


193 


THE   DREAMER   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER 


BY    GEORGE    FLETCHER. 


BUT  little  of  thy  life,  my  child,  is  told  ; 
The    future    lies    before    thee  —  a    wild 

dream ; 
And,  like  a  flower  whose  petals  teem  with 

gold, 
Thy  looks,  hope-tinted,  greet  life's  opening 

beam. 

Reckless  of  sorrow,  how  thy  sparkling  eyes 
In  laughter  flash  —  then,   mild   as    even- 
calm  ; 

Thy  arms  are  round  my  neck ;    my  world- 
wrung  sighs 

Die,  as  I  feel  thy  sweet  lips'  honey-balm. 
Thy  voice's  gentle  music,  as  the  call  of  Spring, 
Steals  o'er  thy  parent's  ear  like  May-dew  — 
freshening. 

Wilt  thou  be  beautiful  in  after  years, 

And  fair  as  thy  dear  mother  ?      Even  now 
Thy  father  feels  a  parent's  darkling  fears, 
To  think  that  sin  may  shade  that  snowy 
brow. 
17 


94    THE  DREAMER  TO  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

Thy  mother's  smile,  her  eyes,  her  graceful 

neck, 
And  her  light  laugh,  thou  hast  in  thy  young 

glee: 
The  unsealed   book  of  Time  thou  dost  not 

reck, 
Although  each  page  may  bear  a  grief  for 

thee. 

I  look  through  years,  and  see  thy  forehead  fair, 
\nd  woman's  looks   of  love  flash  'ncath  thy 
lustrous  hair. 


Those  speaking  '-yes — bright  stars  in  Beauty's 

sky- 
May   flash    (but,   ah  !    I    shudder   at   the 

dream) 

With  all  that  woman's  love  or  fame  can  dye 
A   barque   of    crime   launched    forth    on 

Folly's  stream  ; 

And  Virtue  pale  with  pity  at  thy  name  — 
Dear  child,  thou'rt  smiling  in  thy  father's 

face  : 

Can  guilt  inhabit  such  a  gentle  frame,  — 
Or    thy    dear    brow    wear   vice's    purple 

trace  ? 

Why  should  I  muse  upon  thine  early  morn  ? 
A    flower,   unfolded    now,   thou   art  —  a    sun 
veiled  by  the  dawn. 


THE  DREAMER  TO  HIS  DAUGHTER.    195 

Why  should  I  muse?      Thy   father  yet   is 

young. 
Perhaps  for  him  there  may  be  length  of 

years. 

Be  his  the  task  to  woo,  by  deed  and  tongue, 
Thy  worship  to  the  shrine  chaste  Virtue 

rears. 

Oh,  sweet  the  task  !  and  richly  overpaid, 
To  see  thy  virtue  grow  with  growth  of 

years : 

A  modest,  meek,  and  unassuming  maid  — 
The  picture,  fancy  drawn,  has  woke  my 

tears. 

Thou  might  become  all  that  my  bursting  heart 
E'er  fondly  hoped  —  as  good  as  fair  thou  art ! 


Perhaps,  blest  time,  I  may,  in  after  days, 
See   thy  dear   children   round  me  fondly 

come  : 
Thou  the  bright  star  ;  and  those  thy  kindred 

rays  — 
The   gentle   love-light   of    a   good   man's 

home. 

Perchance  they'll  climb   their   aged   grand- 
sire's  knee  ; 

And  pat  his  cheek ;  and  stroke  his  time- 
bleached  hair. 
I  hear  in  fancy  now  their  infant  glee, 


196    THE  DREAMER  TO  HIS  TAUGHTER. 

Or,   with   thy   dulcet   notes,   blending,   at 

^per-prayer  : 
Thy  husband's  manly  voice  joining  the  swelling 

hymn  : 

Oh  !  such  u  scene  is  half  divine  —  alt  portrait- 
ure is  dim  ! 

Then,  sweet  the  thought,  as  life's  dim  shadow 

flies  — 
My  eyes  grow  weak  —  my  pulse  wax  faint 

and  dull  — 
Thou  and  thy  loving  mate  may  watch  my 

dying  eyes, 

Upturned  to  heaven  —  home  of  the  beau- 
tiful ! 

And  if  that  one,  who  gave  thee  life  and  love, 
Shall  stay  behind  me,  from  the  tomb  of 

death, 

Then  be  thy  joy  a  daughter's  love  to  prove  : 
That  hope  shall  cheer   me  —  though   my 

parting  breath 

May  bless  my  wife,  yet  on  thy  duteous  head, 
With  her  sweet  love  will  fall,  —  a  blessing  of 
the  dead. 

My  dream  is  o'er.     Thy  mighty  will  be  done, 
Eternal   God!  —  all    power,    all    fate,   is 
thine ! 


THE  DREAMER  TO  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


197 


Into  thy  care  receive  this  gentle  one ; 

And  be  the  soul  that  haunts   this   infant 

shrine 
As  pure  in  after  years,  as  now,  without  a 

sin,  — 
(For  can  she  err  till  sin's  dark  power  is 

given  ?  — ) 
She  clings  about  my  neck,  a  father's  love  to 

win, 

Felt  only  greater  by  her  sire  in  heaven. 
Oh,  in  the  human  heart,  the  streams  that  lie 
Of  love,  parental  love,  with  life  are  only  dry ! 


198 

THE  FATAL   REVENGE. 

A     HIGHLAND      STORY. 

"  NORMAN,"  said  one  of  the  sons  of  the 
laird  of  Kinallan  to  his  brother,  "  do  you  in- 
tend going  to  Soonart's  party  to-night  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly,  Hector.  Don't  you  ?  "  re- 
plied the  other. 

44  Are  you  aware  that  Kilmoran  is  to  be 
there  ?  "  rejoined  Hector  ;  answering  his 
brother's  question  by  asking  another. 

44  Perfectly,"  replied  Norman  ;  44  but  what 
of  tha 

44  Why,  of  that,  Mw,"  said  Hector,  fiercely  : 
44  that  I  would  as  soon  throw  myself  from  the 
top  of  Dunavarty  as  enter  the  same  house  — 
much  less  sit  down  at  the  same  table  with  Kil- 
moran. I  have  sworn  to  be  his  death,  and 
therefore  will  not  break  bread  at  the  same 
board  with  him.  You  have  sworn  a  similar 
oath,  Norman.  How  can  you  reconcile  it  with 
your  conscience  to  sit  down  in  pretended  peace 
with  the  man  ?  " 

44  Fair  and  softly,  brother,"  replied  Norman, 
in  his  usual  quiet  tone  ;  44  you  are  hot-headed — 


THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 


199 


you  are  rash,  Hector.  It  is  not  tbe  most  dan- 
gerous dog  that  barks  most.  If  I  keep  a  fair 
side  to  Kilmoran,  it  is  that  I  may  make  the 
more  sure  of  my  revenge  when  the  fitting  op- 
portunity presents  itself." 

"  And  how  long  do  you  propose  waiting  for 
that  opportunity  ? "  said  Hector,  impatiently, 
and  with  a  slight  expression  of  contempt,  which 
he  could  not  suppress,  for  his  more  cautious 
brother's  tardiness  in  executing  their  common 
vengeance. 

"  Till  it  comes,"  replied  Norman,  calmly 
but  emphatically.  "  You  know  that  we  dare 
not  attack  him  openly ;  otherwise,  we  should 
give  mortal  offence  to  the  duke,  and  thereby 
bring  down  ruin  on  ourselves.  We  must, 
therefore,  *  bide  our  time.'  " 

"  Umph  ! "  rejoined  Hector,  turning  on  his 
heel,  and,  without  further  remark,  quitting  the 
apartment  in  which  the  conversation  took  place. 

Availing  ourselves  of  the  opportunity  which 
this  incident  presents,  we  will  here  introduce  a 
word  or  two  of  explanation  concerning  the  par- 
ties whom  we  have,  rather  abruptly  perhaps, 
just  introduced  to  the  reader,  and  of  the  circum- 
stances in  which  they  stood  with  regard  to  each 
other. 

The  two  brothers,  Hector  and  Norman  M'Dou- 


200  THE    FATAL    REVENGF 

gal,  were  the  sons  of  Alexander  M'Dougal,  of 
Kinallan,  a  gentleman  of  considerable  property 
in  the  West  Highlands ;  they  were  neither  of 
them  very  young  men,  both  being  considerably 
ubove  thirty.  As  may,  in  part,  have  been 
gathered  from  what  lias  been  already  said,  the 
brothers,  although  agreeing  in  the  atrocious  re- 
solve which  forms  the  subject  of  our  tale,  were 
of  very  different  dispositions.  Hector  was 
fierce,  irascible,  and  outspoken,  and  although 
capable  of  entertaining  the  most  deadly  hatred 
against  those  who  offended  him,  was  incapable 
of  concealing  it ;  all  the  savage  nature  of  the 
man  was  expressed  in  his  bold  and  determined 
countenance.  It  was  otherwise  with  Norman  ; 
equally  vindictive  with  his  brother,  he  was  more 
cautious  and  guarded  ;  quiet  and  reserved  in 
his  manners,  slow  and  deliberate  in  his  proceed- 
ings, it  was  not  easy  to  discover  whom  he  liked, 
or  whom  he  disliked.  Nor  —  so  carefully  did 
he  conceal  his  resentments  —  were  the  objects 
of  his  hatred  always  aware  of  the  enmity  he 
bore  them  :  on  the  contrary,  deceived  by  his 
civil  speech,  his  ready  smile,  and  apparently 
placid  temperament,  they  often  knew  not  of 
their  danger,  till  circumstances  having,  by  some 
sudden  turn,  put  them  in  his  power,  they  felt 
the  sting  which  he  had  hitherto  so  carefully 


THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 


201 


concealed.  He  never  struck  until  sure  that  his 
blow  would  not  only  find,  but  tell  upon  his 
victim. 

Kilmoran,  again,  —  we  adopt  the  Highland 
custom  of  distinguishing  persons  by  the  name 
of  their  property  or  place  of  residence,  —  was 
a  neighboring  laird,  with  whom  the  family  of 
the  M'Dougals  had  been  long  at  feud,  and  who 
had  recently  added  to  his  offences  by  securing, 
through  his  influence  with  the  Duke  of  Argyle, 
with  whom  he  was  in  great  favor,  a  certain  farm 
which  the  M'Dougals  had  made  some  strenuous 
efforts  to  obtain. 

Soonart,  again,  —  or  the  Laird  of  Soonart,  as 
he  was  called,  —  was  also  a  neighbor,  although 
not  a  very  near  one,  his  residence  being  about 
five  miles  distant  from  those  of  the  M'Dougals 
and  Kilmorans,  which  were  within  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  of  each  other. 

Having  mentioned  these  particulars,  we  pro- 
ceed with  our  tale. 

Agreeably  to  the  resolution  which  he  had 
expressed  to  his  brother,  Norman,  shortly  after 
the  conversation  with  the  former,  which  we  re- 
corded at  the  outset  of  our  story,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  set  off  for  Soonart;  the  merry- 
making to  which  he  had  been  invited,  and  to 
which  we  formerly  alluded,  being  to  take  place 


202  THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 

on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  our  talo 

Soonart,  or  Castle  Soonart,  as  it  was  soinc- 
-  called,  although  scarcely  deserving  so 
dignified  a  title,  was  an  ancient  building  in  the 
style  of  the  sixteenth  century,  turreted  and  bat- 
tlementecl,  with  steep  gray  roofs  and  deeply- 
iiulented  ledges.  It  stood  on  the  summit  of  a 
rugged,  precipitous  cliff,  whose  base  was  washed 
by  the  sea  ;  its  white-crested  waves,  in  stormy 
:icr,  howling  around,  and  leaping  upon  the 
majestic  rock,  like  a  flock  of  hungry  wolves. 
On  the  land  side,  however,  the  house  was  of 
easy  access,  being  connected  with  the  main  land 
by  a  broad  natural  mound  or  isthmus.  In  an- 
cient times,  this  neck  of  land  was  intersected  by 
a  deep  moat  at  a  short  distance  from  the  build- 
ing ;  but  it  had  been  allowed  to  fill  up,  and  was 
at  the  time  of  which  we  write  but  just  discern- 
ible by  faint  outlines. 

The  greater  number  of  the  party  invited  to 
Soonart  had  already  arrived,  when  Norman 
M'Dougal  presented  himself  in  the  large  dining- 
hall  of  the  mansion  :  and  among  those  assem- 
bled there  was  Kilmoran.  On  Norman's  en- 
trance, the  latter,  who  was  a  good-natured, 
kind-hearted  man,  and  who  had  always  anxiously 
desired  to  be  at  peace  with  his  neighbors,  the 


THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 


203 


M'Dougals,  instantly  made  up  to  him,  and 
offered  him  the  hand'  of  friendship.  It  was 
readily  accepted  by  his  treacherous  enemy,  and 
apparently  with  as  much  cordiality  as  it  was 
given.  The  ready  but  quiet  smile  of  Norman 
replied  to  the  half-jocular,  half-serious  remon- 
strances of  Kilmoran  on  the  subject  of  their 
ancient  enmity  ;  and  a  significant  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  accompanied  by  words  of  kindness, 
expressed  —  or  were  meant  to  express  —  his 
perfect  willingness  to  entertain  Kilmoran's  pro- 
posal that  they  should  forget  the  past,  and  live 
in  friendship  for  the  future. 

Soon  after,  the  guests  having  all  assembled, 
the  party  sat  down  to  table,  to  partake  of  the 
good  things  provided  for  them  by  their  host. 
Leaving  them  thus  agreeably  employed,  we 
shall  return  for  a  time  to  the  residence  of  the 
M'Dougals,  and  take  up  the  part  about  to  be 
enacted  by  Hector  in  the  tragical  drama  of  the 
evening. 

Brooding  over  the  grudge  he  bore  Kilmoran, 
and  which  had  been  stirred  into  fresh  activity  by 
the  incident  of  their  common  invitation  to  Soon- 
art,  and  in  part  also  by  the  late  conversation  he 
had  had  with  his  brother  on  the  subject,  Hector 
M'Dougal  was  suddenly  struck  with  one  of 
those  atrocious  ideas  that  so  frequently  present 
thenaselves  to  desperate  and  revengeful  men, 


201  THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 

and  fill  the  world  with  crime.  He  determined 
on  that  very  night  to  waylay  and  murder  Kil- 
moran  on  his  return  from  Soonart,  which  he 
calculated  would  be  about  midnight.  Having 
come  to  this  hellish  resolution,  he  armed  himself 
with  his  rifle  —  with  which  he  was  an  unerring 
shot,  as  the  deer  of  his  native  mountains  knew 
by  fatal  experience,  —  and  hasted  away  to  seek 
a  favorable  situation  for  executing  the  dreadful 
deed  he  contemplated. 

Stealing  secretly  out  of  the  house,  and  after- 
wards taking  a  quiet  and  circuitous  route,  h<- 
made  for  a  certain  copse  on  the  face  of  a  rising 
ground,  that  overlooked  the  road  by  which  Kil- 
moran  must  return  home  ;  this  road  lying  be- 
tween the  rising  ground  alluded  to  and  a  beau- 
tiful lake  that  slept  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills. 
Entering  the  copse,  M'Dougal  pushed  through 
it  until  he  reached  the  skirt  nearest  the  way  by 
which  Kilmoran  would  pass,  and  which  brought 
him  to  within  fifty  or  sixty  yards  of  it.  Here 
concealing  himself  among  the  thick  underwood, 
and  with  a  paling  in  front  on  which  to  lean  his 
rifle,  M'Dougal  awaited  the  appearance  of  his 
victim.  It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night,  and  as 
the  horse  Kilmoran  always  rode  was  a  very  light 
gray,  approaching  almost  to  white,  and  in  this 
respect  somewhat  remarkable,  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  in  at  once  recognizing  him. 


THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 


205 


Leaving  the  assassin  thus  watching  for  his 
prey,  we  shall  return  to  Soonart,  to  see  how  the 
evening  was  passing  with  the  festive  party  there 
assembled.  It  was  passing  pleasantly ;  the 
banquet-room  of  the  old  mansion  rung  with  the 
burst  of  hilarious  merriment  which  the  facetious 
jest  and  humorous  song  were  ever  and  anon 
eliciting,  and  the  wine-flagon  was  pacing  it 
merrily  round  the  festal  board. 

The  time  came,  however,  when  the  jest  and 
song  were  heard  more  rarely,  and  when  the 
wine-flagon  began  to  make  its  rounds  with  a 
more  tardy  motion.  It  was  getting  late ;  the 
spirits  of  the  party  were  flagging,  and  a  general 
movement  among  the  guests  to  break  up  the 
party  was  the  result.  It  did  bre'k  up  ;  when, 
hurrying  out  of  the  apartment  in  merry  and 
somewhat  obstreperous  confusion,  the  guests 
sought  the  stables  for  their  horses,  all  of  them 
having  como  from  a  distance.  Kilmoran  was 
among  the  party  who  sallied  out  in  quest  of 
their  steeds,  but  it  was  merely  to  see  his  friends 
mounted  he  accompanied  them,  as  he  had  been 
prevailed  upon  by  his  host  to  remain  with  him 
all  night,  in  order  to  pin  him  in  a  hunting-party 
which  had  been  made  up  for  an  early  hour  of 
the  following  morning.  This  was  altogether  an 
unexpected  circumstance  on  the  part  of  Kil- 
18 


206  THE    FATAL   REVENGE. 

moran,  who  had  originally  intended  to  return 
home  that  night. 

On  the  party  reaching  the  stable,  it  was  found 
that  Norman  M'Pougal's  horse  was  dead  lame 
in  two  of  his  logs,  and  consequently  unable  to 
walk  a  single  step.  How  this  had  happened 
could  not  be  at  the  moment  ascertained  ;  some 
sinews  strained,  it  was  supposed,  or  some  injury 
sustained  in  ti  l»ut  whatever  might  be 

•h  the  animal,  or  in  whatever  way  he 
might  have  come  by  his  injuries,  it  was  clear  he 
was  quite  unable  to  carry  his  master  home  that 
night.  Seeing  this,  Kilmoran,in  the  same  spirit 
in  which  he  had  made  up  to  M'Dougal  on  his 
first  arrival  at  Soonart,  pressed  him  to  take  the 
use  of  his  horse  ;  adding,  good-humoredly,  that 
if  he  did  not  think  he  could  presume  to  take  a 
horse  of  his  to  his  father's  house,  seeing  the 
ancient  enmity  that  was  between  them,  he  might 
ride  him  to  Kilmoran,  leave  him  there,  and  walk 
home,  a  distance  of  only  about  half  a  mile. 

M'Dougal  would  have  refused  to  accept  the 
proffered  kindness  ;  but,  besides  his  own  wish 
to  deceive  Kilmoran  with  regard  to  his  feelings 
towards  him,  there  were  too  many  witnesses 
present  for  him  to  feel  safe  in  exhibiting  any, 
the  slightest,  symptom  of  the  dislike  he  bore 
that  person ;  and  his  rejection  of  his  offered 


THE    FATAL    REVENGE.  207 

civility  on  the  present  occasion,  he  feared, 
might  be  looked  upon  in  that  light,  and  be  re- 
membered afterwards  if  anything  should  happen 
to  Kilmoran.  Reasoning  thus,  and  reasoning 
as  quick  as  thought,  M'Dougal,  with  many  ex- 
pressions of  thanks,  accepted  the  offer  of  Kil- 
moran's  horse,  mounted  him,  and  rode  off*. 
Fifteen  minutes'  smart  riding  brought  him  to 
the  margin  of  the  lake  formerly  alluded  to  ;  a 
few  minutes  more  saw  him  enter  on  and  pro- 
ceed along  the  road  that  skirted  it. 

Unconscious  of  peril,  M'Dougal  rode  on,  and 
had  attained  somewhere  about  half  the  length 
of  the  lake,  when  the  sharp  report  of  a  rifle 
rung  in  the  copse,  and  in  the  same  instant  Nor- 
man M'Dougal  fell  from  his  horse  a  dead  man 
—  a  rifle-ball  having  passed  right  through  his 
head.  Deceived  by  the  horse  he  rode,  his 
brother  had  directed  against  him  that  shot  which 
he  intended  for  Kilmoran. 

Unaware  of  the  dreadful  mistake  he  had 
committed,  M'Dougal  hastened  home,  and,  un- 
perceived  by  any  one,  entered  the  house  and 
retired  to  bed.  Morning  came,  and  with  it 
much  surprise  to  the  midnight  assassin  that  his 
brother  had  not  returned.  Leaving  his  couch, 
on  which  he  had  spent  but  a  restless  night,  he 
approached  the  window  of  his  bedchamber  to 
look  abroad  on  the  morning.  He  had  not  done 


208  THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 

so  for  many  seconds,  when  he  saw  a  crowd  of 
people  slowly  approaching  the  house,  and  bear- 
ing along  what  appeared  to  be  a  heavy  burden. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  made  out  that  it  was  a 
human  body  they  were  carrying,  and,  not 
doubting  that  it  was  the  corpse  of  Kilmoran,  he 
summoned  his  utmost  resolution  to  meet  the  re- 
port of  that  gentleman's  murder  with  as  un- 
moved and  unconscious  a  manner  as  possible. 
But  why  bring  the  body  of  the  murdered  man 
to  his  house  ?  Why  not  take  it  to  Kilmoran  ? 
The  proceeding  confounded  him,  and  filled  his 
guilty  bosom  with  a  thousand  indefinable  ter- 
rors. In  the  mean  time,  the  persons  bearing 
the  corpse  approached  ;  they  passed  beneath 
the  window  at  which  M'Dougal  was  standing, 
and  in  the  livid  and  ghastly  upturned  face  of 
the  murdered  man  he  recognized  the  face  of 
his  brother.  Suspicions  of  the  dreadful  truth 
flashed  across  his  mind,  and  ho  sank  into  a 
chair,  powerless  and  all  but  insensible. 

In  a  few  minutes,  one  of  the  men  who  had 
brought  the  body  home  entered  his  apartment, 
and  with  a  sorrowful  countenance  —  and  not 
aware  that  he  had  seen  the  body  pass  —  in- 
formed him  that  his  brother  had  been  killed. 

"  How  ? "  said  M'Dougal,  in  a  sepulchral 
voice. 

"  Shot  through  the  head,"  replied  the  man. 


THE    FATAL    REVENGE. 


209 


"  Where  was  the  body  found  ?  "  again  asked 
ATDougal,  with  white,  parched,  and  quivering 

UP. 

"  By  the   side   of  the   loch,  near  Clachan- 
more,"  answered  the  man. 

All  that  day  M'Dougal  kept  his  apartment, 
and  would  neither  himself  come  forth,  nor 
would  he  allow  any  one  to  enter.  When  the 
morning  came,  he  was  missing  ;  he  had  disap- 
peared through  the  night,  and  none  could  then, 
or  ever  after,  tell  whither  he  had  gone.  It  was 
supposed  by  some  that  he  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  lake ;  by  others,  that  he  had  left  the 
country  and  gone  abroad  :  this  last  rumor  being 
followed  up  by  a  report,  some  years  after,  that 
he  had  fallen  in  the  American  war  —  it  was 
said,  in  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill 
18* 


210 

LOVE   IN   ABSENCE. 

BY     MISS    JAMESON. 

As  sounds  of  sweetest  music  heard  at  eve, 
When    summer's    dew    weeps     over    languid 

flowers, 
And  the  still  air  conveys  each  tone, 

i.iint,  and  bears  it  to  the  ear 
With    a    distinct    and   thrilling   sound,    which 

leaves 

Its  memory  long  within  the  'raptured  soul, 
Even  such  thou  art  to  me  ;  and  thus  I  sit 
And  feel  the  harmony  that  round  thee  lives 
And  breathes  in  every  feature.     Thus  I  sit, 
And  when  most  quiet,  cold,  or  silent,  then, 
Even  then,  I  feel  each  word,  each  look,  each 

tone. 

There  is  not  an  accent  of  that  tender  voice, 
There  is  not  a  day-beam  from  those  sun-bright 

eyes, 

Nor  passing  smile,  nor  melancholy  grace, 
Nor  thought  half-uttered,  feeling  half-betrayed, 
Nor  glance    of   kindness  —  no,    nor    gentlest 

touch 


LOVE    IN    ABSENCE. 


Of  that  dear  hand,  in  amity  extended, 
That  e'er  was  lost  to  me  —  that,  treasured  well, 
A.nd  oft  recalled,  dwells  not  upon  my  soul 
Like  sweetest  music  heard  at  summer's  eve. 


212 

WITHERED   VIOLETS. 

REED. 

LONG  years  have  passed,  pale  flowers,  since  you 
Were  culled,  and  given  in  brightest  bloom, 

By  one  whose  eyes  eclipsed  your  blue, 
Whose  breath  was  like  your  own  perfume. 

Long  years  —  but  though  your  bloom  be  gone, 
The  fragrance  which  your  freshness  shed 

Survives,  when  memory  lingers  on, 

When  all  that  blessed  its  birth  have  fled. 

Those  hues  and  hopes  will  pass  away  ;  — 
Thus  youth,  and  bloom,  and  bliss,  depart ; 

Oh  !  what  is  left  when  these  decay  !  — 
The  faded  leaf,  the  withered  heart  I 


213 


A   STEAM   VOYAGE   ON   THE 
MEDITERRANEAN. 

DURING  the  month  of  June,  1838,  I  was  de- 
tained some  time  at  Marseilles,  waiting  the 
arrival  of  a  friend  who  had  engaged  to  accom- 
pany me  to  the  Levant.  At  length,  when  I 
had  almost  determined  to  retrace  my  steps  to 
Paris,  and  ascertain  the  cause  of  delay,  a  letter 
came :  my  friend's  arrangements  had  been 
suddenly  upset ;  and  he  could  not  leave  Paris. 
It  was  Saturday,  and  it  still  wanted  some  hours 
of  sunset,  so  I  instantly  began  -to  inquire  the 
best  method  of  proceeding  to  Malta.  There 
were  several  vessels  in  the  harbor,  bound  for 
the  island,  the  skippers  of  which  each  assured 
me  that  his  vessel  was  sure  to  sail  next  day,  or 
the  day  after  at  the  farthest ;  but  I  knew  them 
too  well  to  believe  a  word  they  said,  —  so,  hav- 
ing satisfied  myself  from  appearances  that  not 
one  of  them  would  leave  the  harbor  for  at  least 
ten  days,  I  gave  up  the  idea  of  proceeding  in  a 
sailing  vessel,  and  determined  to  try  a  steamer. 
The  French  government-steamers  were,  I  soon 
found,  the  only  ones  plying  between  Marseilles 
and  Malta,  and  I  was  informed  that  the  Sesos- 


214  A    STEAM  VOYAGE    ON 

tris  would  sail  on  Monday,  at  four,  P.M.  I 
therefore  returned  to  my  hotel,  and  made  the 
necessary  preparations  for  the  voyage. 

Next  day  I  paid  a  visit  to  a  friend  who  had 
had  some  experience  in  Levantine  steamers,  to 
ask  his  advice  regarding  what  part  of  the  vessel 
I  should  sail  in,  also  regarding  provisions,  &c. 
The  weather  had  been  extremely  sultry  for 
some  weeks,  and  no  rain  had  fallen  in  the  south 
of  France  for  more  than  a  month ;  conse- 
quently a  voyage  on  the  Mediterranean  at  that 
time,  was  likely  to  be  a  warm  one. 

My  friend,  after  inquiring  concerning  my 
travelling  wardrobe,  pronounced  it  sufficient, 
come  sun,  come  rain,  and  advised  me  strongly 
to  take  a  deck-passage.  The  first  cabin,  he  re- 
marked, was  very  expensive,  both  as  regarded 
the  passage-money  and  provisions,  —  the  latter 
the  passenger  being  obliged  to  pay  for,  whether 
he  partake  or  not ;  but  his  principal  objection 
was  the  intolerable  heat  arising  from  the  sun, 
joined  to  that  caused  by  the  fire  and  vapor  of 
six  or  seven  days'  steaming.  The  second 
cabin  was  moderate  in  price,  but  in  it  also  the 
passengers  must  pay  exhorbitant  prices  for  pro- 
visions, whether  partaken  of  or  not,  while  it 
was  as  hot  as  the  first  cabin.  The  deck,  on 
the  contrary,  my  friend  assured  me,  could  be 
tolerated  during  the  day,  as  there  were  plenty 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 


215 


of  opportunities  of  sitting  in  the  shade,  while  it 
was  not  too  cold  during  the  night :  there  was 
another  point  too,  and  a  very  important  one  to 
an  Englishman  in  a  French  boat ;  deck- 
passengers  were  allowed  to  carry  their  own 
provisions  with  them,  or  purchase  from  the 
steward,  according  as  they  felt  inclined.  Hav- 
ing listened  to  all  these  considerations,  and  seri- 
ously weighed  the  matter  in  my  own  mind,  I 
determined  on  taking  a  deck-passage. 

On  Monday  forenoon  I  repaired  to  the  proper 
authorities,  and  had  my  passport  inspected.  I 
then  directed  my  steps  to  the  British  Consul, 
and,  having  got  the  necessary  papers,  proceeded 
to  the  office  of  the  steamer,  and  producing  all 
these  documents,  left  them  in  the  hands  of  the 
clerk,  paid  my  passage-money,  and  received  a 
ticket  containing  the  rules  and  regulations  to  bo 
observed  on  embarking  and  during  the  voyage. 
They  were  very  strict,  but,  as  I  found  after- 
wards, u  more  honored  in  the  breach  than  in 
the  observance." 

After  my  luggage  was  all  packed,  I  sum- 
moned "boots,"  and  consulted  regarding  the 
proper  provisions  for  the  voyage :  the  result 
was,  that  we  both  sallied  out  together,  and  ic- 
turned  with  the  following,  which,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  water,  we  judged  sufficient  for  one  man 
during  a  week:  —  Two  loaves  of  bread,  each 


216  A    STEAM   VOYAGE    ON 

eighteen  inches  long,  four  pounds  of  biscuit, 
one  pound  of  Parmesan  cheese,  two  pounds  of 
boiled  beef,  a  pound  of  loaf-sugar,  and  two  bot- 
tles of  brandy.  The  steamer  was  to  sail  ut  four, 
and  I  left  my  hotel  at  three,  dressed  in  summer 
style.  We  had  about  fifteen  minutes'  walk  to 
the  place  of  embarkation.  On  leaving  the 
hotel,  the  sun  was  oppressively  warm,  and  the 
white  dust  blowing  through  the  streets  in  dense 
clouds;  but  ere  we  had  gone  a  hundred  yards 
the  rain  began  to  pour,  and  long  before  we 
bad  the  quay,  it  fell  in  torrents;  —  my 
cloak  was  ut  hand,  however,  and  wrapping  it 
rout)'  -ugratulatrd  myself  that  long  be- 

fore its  well-lined  cloth  was  wet  through,  the 
sun  would  be  as  bright  in  the  heavens  as  ever. 
On  arriving  at  the  quay,  we  found  an  immense 
number  of  little  boats,  the  inmates  of  which 
were  very  solicitous  for  our  favor,  and  having 
embarked  in  one  which  had  an  awning  to  pro- 
tect us  from  the  sun,  I  was  soon  on  board  the 
steamer  with  my  luggage.  The  moment  I  was 
on  board,  an  officer  demanded  my  ticket,  and 
referring  to  a  bundle  of  papers,  said  I  was  all 
right.  It  was  within  a  few  minutes  of  the  time 
of  sailing,  and  passengers  were  arriving  in 
great  numbers,  all  of  whom  were  asked  for 
their  tickets,  and  a  reference  made  to  the  bun- 
dle of  passports,  ere  they  were  let  out  of  the 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 


217 


immediate  surveillance  of  a  warrant-officer 
armed  with  sword  and  pistol.  So  uniformly 
regular  did  every  one's  passport  appear  to  be, 
that  I  began  to  think  it  was  only  a  form  to  in- 
spect them,  until  the  officer,  turning  around  to 
%  German  student  who  had  just  appeared,  de- 
manded his  bill  of  health.  The  student  said  it 
had  been  left  with  the  clerk,  along  with  his 
other  papers,  when  he  engaged  his  passage. 
The  officer  called  him  "  a  liar,"  and  said  that 
he  had  never  had  one.  An  official  from  the 
land  now  stepped  forward,  and  stated  that  there 
had  been  more  passengers  engaged  than  bills 
of  health  taken,  and  that  he  attended  in  conse- 
quence, as  the  steamer  could  not  clear  out  until 
this  matter  was  rectified.  On  referring  to  the 
bills  of  health  furnished,  the  German  student's 
name  was  not  there,  and  in  great  wrath,  swear- 
ing in  French,  German,  and  Italian,  he  was 
obliged  to  pay  three  francs  and  a  half  to  have 
his  according  to  rule. 

At  four  o'clock  the  post-office  boat  came 
alongside ;  some  letter-bags  and  five  small 
casks  of  silver  money  were  put  on  board  in 
charge  of  an  officer,  the  large  bell  was  rung, 
and  all  those  for  the  shore  were  ordered  to  quit 
the  vessel.  The  cry  through  the  vessel  now 
was  1"  L'appe2y  Vappel,"  (the  calling  of  the 
names,)  and  several  petty  officers  were  em- 
19 


218  A    STEAM    VOYAGE    ON 

ployed  in  gathering  the  passengers  from  every 
part  of  the  vessel  to  the  quarter-deck.  As  soon 
as  the  first  lieutenant  had  been  informed  that 
unconnected  with  the  vessel  was  now 
on  the  poop,  the  commissariat  began  calling  out 
the  list  of  passengers,  each  answering  to  hi£ 
name,  and  passing  to  another  part  of  the  vessel. 
\Vhrn  the  list  was  finished,  the  commissariat 
informed  the  first  lieutenant  that  everything  was 
right;  the  side-ladders  were  drawn  up,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  we  were  out  of  the  basin  of 
Marseilles,  and  steaming  through  the  blue  wa- 
:-;mean.  During  the  bustle 
attending  our  departure  tin-  ram  poured  with 
unabated  fury,  and  continued  to  do  so  until  two 
o'clock  next  morning,  whi-n  il  stopped  at  sun- 
rise. It  was  soon  pretty  evident  that  the  clothes 
:  on  would  not  protect  me  during  the  night; 
so  the  cloak  was  laid  aside  until  I  put  on  over 
my  coat,  a  surtout,  pilot-coat,  and  mackintosh. 
The  cloak  was  then  put  above  all,  and  I  again 
congratulated  myself  on  being  fully  waterproof, 
as  my  mackintosh  was  of  the  great-coat  form, 
and  reached  considerably  below  the  knee. 

When  we  were  fairly  at  sea,  one  of  the 
warrant-officers  got  each  of  the  passengers  to 
point  out  his  luggage,  which  was  stowed  away 
in  different  places,  in  order  that  no  mistake 
might  occur  in  the  various  ports  at  which  we 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN.  219 

were  to  touch  :  by  the  time  this  was  accom- 
plished, the  deck  was  covered  with  passengers, 
who,  finding  their  berths  too  hot,  preferred  the 
wet  of  the  decK  to  the  heat  of  the  cabin.  In 
the  first  cabin  there  were  about  twenty  passen- 
gers for  Leghorn,  four  for  Civita  Vecchia,  one 
for  Malta,  and  two  for  Athens.  In  the  second 
cabin  there  were,  an  Italian  singer  proceeding 
to  some  one  of  the  theatres  on  the  Adriatic,  a 
good-natured  merry  sort  of  fellow,  who  was 
never  loth  to  enliven  the  company  with  a  song ; 
five  Italian  refugees  proceeding  to  the  Papal 
states  for  protection  ;  two  merchants  of  and  for 
Leghorn ;  two  cooks  proceeding  by  way  of 
Alexandria  to  the  establishment  of  Lord  Elph- 
instone  in  India ;  a  very  old  Italian  on  his  way 
to  the  holy  sepulchre ;  and  several  attendants 
belonging  to  parties  in  the  first  cabin.  We  of 
the  deck  were  more  select.  There  were  four 
German  students  (Burschenschaft)  returning 
from  Paris  to  Austria  ;  one  Fanaariole  returning 
from  London  to  Constantinople,  and  the  writer. 
We,  the  deck-passengers,  were  soon  acquainted, 
and  amber  pipes  and  cigars  were  passed  from 
one  to  another  ;  at  last  the  store  of  provisions 
was  alluded  to,  —  we  gathered  round  a  large 
barrel-head  and  displayed  our  edibles.  The 
other  five  had  many  things  I  could  not  boast  of 
—  but  I  had  one  advantage,  with  my  brandy  ; 


220  A    STEAM    VOYAGE    ON 

one  of  the  bottles  was  produced  and  a  flask  of 
r  :  our  carousal-bowl  was  an  old  tin  jug, 
our  table-cloth  a  late  number  of"  Le  National," 
our  table  a  barrel-head,  while  the  rain  poured 
down  in  torrents,  and  wo  wore  obliged  to  put  an 
umbrella  over  our  good  things  ;  nevertheless, 
11  made  a  hearty  meal  —  the  various  stores 
were  free  to  all,  ami  we  laughed  and  talked 
over  the  idea  of  happiness  having  much  to  do 
with  outward  things.  When  the  repast  was  fin- 
ished, each  wrapped  up  his  stores,  and  a  good 
glass  of  brandy-and-water,  pipes  and  cigars, 
songs  and  anecdotes,  kept  us  merry,  and  I  had 
almost  forgotten  that  it  rained,  when  the  in- 
creased weight  of  my  cloak  recalled  my  atten- 
tion ;  it  was  now  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  the 
cloak  was  as  wet  as  if  it  had  been  tossed  in  the 
sea  since  we  left  Marseilles.  None  of  us  felt 
much  cold  during  the  night.  A  gentleman  and 
his  lady  slept  in  their  carriage  on  deck  ;  a  sec- 
ond carriage  was  occupied  by  two  footmen  who 
had  it  in  charge;  —  two  first-cabin  and  one 
second-cabin  passengers  kept  the  deck  all  night ; 
the  remainder  of  the  passengers  preferred  to 
be  stewed  below.  At  last  the  morning  broke, 
dry  and  brilliant ;  our  wet  clothes  were  hung 
up  here  and  there,  boots  and  shoes  were  kicked 
from  our  feet,  and  ere  six  o'clock  we  were  as 
merry  as  crickets,  sitting  on  the  dry  deck  en- 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 


221 


joying  our  breakfast,  which  we  accompanied  by 
a  small  glass  of  brandy,  and  a  large  one  of 
good  wine,  a  flask  of  which  some  one  drew 
from  out  his  haversack. 

Before  noon,  every  appearance  of  the  former 
night's  rain  had  vanished ;  our  clothes  were 
dry  —  and  so,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  were  my  two 
bottles.  The  day  was  a  remarkably  beautiful 
one  ;  nobody  was  sick,  but  all  enjoying  them- 
selves, by  either  joining  or  passively  looking  at 
the  sporting,  leaping,  wrestling,  and  quarter- 
staff,  which  occupied  the  attention  of  the  crew 
as  well  as  passengers  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
day.  The  porpoises,  too,  seemed  to  join  in  the 
fun,  as  they  sported  in  hundreds  before,  under, 
and  on  each  side  of  our  vessel ;  while  the  water 
was  so  transparent,  that  on  looking  over  the 
bows,  these  merry  fish  could  be  seen  far,  far 
down  in  the  water.  In  the  afternoon,  we  passed 
the  island  of  Corsica,  towards  which,  as  long  as 
it  was  in  sight,  all  eyes  were  directed  ;  and 
many  were  the  curses  I  heard  vented  forth 
against  the  English  nation,  for  their  treatment 
of  the  once  obscure  native  of  that  little  isle 
(Napoleon)  — "  and  one  who,  if  he  had  lived," 
said  one  of  the  passengers,  u  would  have  made 
Paris  the  capital  of  Europe."  In  the  evening 
there  were  several  card-parties  formed  —  but 
whist  was  not  one  of  the  games  played.  Thus 
19* 


2*22  A    SlliA.M     VuYAiiK    ON 

the  time  passed  away,  and  as  the  shades  of 
night  were  drawing  around,  I  picked  out  the 
"softest  plank,"  and,  with  "  a  reefing  block" 
lor  my  pillow,  lay  down  and  fell  asleep. 

I  imagine   the  night   must  have   been  a  very 
quiet  one,  as,  when  1  was  awakened,  I  found  the 
sun  had  the  start  of  me.     In  a  few   minutes  all 
;<1    confusion,  passengers    running 
hither  and  thither,  tumbling  and 

ropes,  with  both   of  which  the  dirk  was   again 
covered.     We   Win   "il"  the   port   of  Leghorn, 
where  a  great  many  passengers,  two  cli 
and  an  imm< •!!>»;  <juantity  of  luggage  had  to  be 
landed  ;  altho  .-  d  doubtful   if 

passengers  and  luggage  could  be  landed,  and 
not  at  all  doubtful  that  the  carriages  could  not, 
on  account  of  the  heavy  swell  setting  in  from 
the  east.  It  was  now  six  in  the  morning,  and 
the  captain  said  he  should  remain  eight  hours 
•,  but  would  not  go  into  the  harbor  unless 
compelled.  As  soon  as  this  determination  was 
known,  tl.  ;i  to  form  themselves 

into  parties,  who  elected  one  to  make  a  bargain 
with  a  boatman.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  from 
the  time  our  anchor  was  let  go,  there  could  not 
be  less  than  thirty  boats  alongside,  each  having 
from  four  to  six  men.  Watermen  are  the  same 
all  the  world  over,  consequently  there  was  much 
wrangling  before  a  bargain  was  struck.  The 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 


223 


ladder  was  at  last  let  down,  and  the  first  party 
began  to  descend  ;  but  it  was  a  task  sufficient 
to  try  the  nerves  of  the  most  hardy,  as  the  boat 
was  one  moment  drawn  from  the  ladder  with 
great  velocity,  and  the  next  dashed  up  against  it. 
One  man  was  rather  shy  of  letting  go  his  hold, 
and  he  was  hauled  out  of  the  boat  again  after 
his  feet  had  been  in  it,  immersed  up  to  the 
middle  in  water ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
two  sailors  who  manned  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
instantly  hauling  him  in,  he  would  have  been 
much  hurt,  if  not  killed,  between  the  ladder  and 
the  boat :  as  it  was,  he  appeared  neither  hurt 
nor  frightened,  and  when  the  boat  approached 
again,  he  leaped  from  the  ladder  at  once  into 
the  bottom.  After  receiving  the  proper  number 
of  passengers,  each  boat  dropped  astern,  where 
it  held  on  until  the  luggage  was  lowered  by 
ropes.  In  this  manner,  and  in  about  two  hours, 
all  the  passengers  and  their  luggage  were  safely 
disembarked.  The  last  boatful  was  an  English 
diplomatic  gentleman,  his  wife,  and  a  man  and 
maid  servant.  The  man-servant  at  once  got 
into  the  boat ;  but  the  maid  stood  on  the  lower 
step  screaming  at  the  pitch  of  her  voice,  and  no 
entreaty  could  make  her  put  her  foot  in  the 
boat :  at  last  a  sailor  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
stepping  in  with  her,  laid  her  safely  down  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat,  where  she  began  to  roar 


224  A    STEAM    VOYAGE    ON 

more  lustily  than  ever,  screeching  that  she  was 
a  drowned  woman.  The  lady  now  appeared  on 
the  last  step ;  a  sailor  handed  her  in,  and  laid 
her  also  jdown  in  the  boat.  I  never  certainly 
saw  two  women  so  terrified  in  my  life  —  but  the 
outward  language  of  their  fear  was  totally 
different.  The  servant  screamed  and  beat  the 
boat  with  her  hands,  while  the  tears  ran  from 
her  swollen  eyes  down  her  inflamed  che«-ks. 
-  dreadfully  pale,  perfectly  quiet, 
and,  to  all  appearance,  almost  unconscious  of 
everything  around. 

After  the   passengers  were   all  dispn- 
the   attention  of  the  CP  .n-ctcd   to  the 

.•iagcs,  one  of  which  n  slung,  and  a 

large  boat  prepared  to  receive  it ;  but  after 
many  vain  attempts  to  place  it  in  the  boat,  the 
design  was  abandoned,  and  rather  than  run  the 
risk  of  losing  the  carriages,  the  anchor  was  or- 
dered to  be  weighed,  and  we  stood  for  the  har- 
bor. That  the  reason  of  the  captain's  unwil- 
lingness to  approach  the  harbor  was  a  quarrel 
of  some  sort  was  evident,  as  the  harbor-officers 
would  not  allow  any  of  the  warps  to  be  fastened 
to  the  shore,  which  caused  a  great  deal  of 
abuse  from  all  parties.  At  last  our  steamer  was 
safely  moored  alongside  of  a  large  Swedish 
vessel ;  and  as  it  still  wanted  five  hours  of  the 
time  appointed  for  sailing,  four  of  us  joined 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 


225 


together,  and,  hiring  a  boat,  went  ashore.  No 
one  prevented  our  landing ;  no  one  asked  for 
our  passports  even  on  entering  the  town ;  and 
if  they  had,  we  could  not  have  given  them,  as 
they  were  in  the  hands  of  the  commissariat. 
The  streets  were  burning  hot,  and  glared  un- 
pleasantly to  the  eye.  The  cafes  were  filled 
with  smokers  and  drinkers :  we  wandered  up 
one  street  and  down  another  for  several  hours 
—  smoked  our  pipes,  drank  our  coffee  and  iced 
punch  —  bought  each  a  bottle  of  rum  and  a 
pipe  head  shaped  as  a  bust  of  Napoleon,  and 
repaired  on  board  our  steamer  in  good  time. 
At  two  P.M.  the  mail-bags  came  on  board,  the 
anchor  was  weighed,  and  we  steamed  out  of 
the  port. 

At  Leghorn  we  had  left  the  greater  part  of 
our  passengers  ;  all  the  deck  ones  but  the  Fa- 
naariote  and  myself  were  gone.  The  steamer 
was  not  so  crowded  nor  so  merry,  but  the  day 
was  as  hot  as  ever;  and  towards  evening  it 
blew  a  capful  of  wind.  All  the  passengers  but 
Georgidas  and  myself  were  sick :  we,  Robinson 
Crusoe-like,  constructed  of  tarpaulins  a  sort  of 
tent,  and  Georgidas  having  an  oriental  coverlid, 
we  stretched  it  under  its  shade  and  soon  fell 
asleep. 

At  four  next  morning  we  were  awakened  by 
hearing  the  anchor  drop,  and  on  turning  out, 


A    STEAM    VoVACi:    ON 

foun  oil'  Civita  Vecchia.     In  a  short 

time  we  were  surrounded  by  boats,  but  no  one 
to  approach,  as  one  or  two  boats, 
with  the  Papal  Hag  in  the  stern,  pulled  round 
and  round  the  steamer.  It  appeared  that  we 
were  deemed  in  quarantine,  and  must  await  ex- 
amination of  the  bills  of  health  before  any  com- 
munication with  the  shore  could  be  held.  It 
It  was  the  14th  of  June,  a  solemn  festival  day, 
and  we  could  easily  discern  moving  along  the 
shore,  a  long  procession  of  priests,  friars,  sol- 
diers, crosses,  crosiers,  banners,  and  other  ec- 
astical  appendages,  as  also  immensely-large 
lighted  candles,  although  it  was  good  daylight. 
At  ten  o'clock  we  got  permission,  and  went 
ashore  :  the  procession  was  filing  its  intermina- 
ble length  through  the  streets,  while  every  head 
was  uncovered  and  every  knee  bent  before  it. 
In  the  procession  there  could  not  have  been 
fewer  than  ten  thousand  soldiers  and  about  five 
thousand  priests  :  some  of  the  latter  were  car- 
ried on  cushioned  seats,  borne  on  men's  should- 
ers, and  shaded  by  a  canopy  supported  on  long 
poles  by  four  men  ;  others  walked  under  a  can- 
opy—  but  these  were  dignitaries.  The  great 
mass  of  the  priests  were  of  course  on  foot; 
some  of  them  wore  shoes,  others  sandals,  but 
at  least  one-third  walked  barefoot.  After  the 
procession  had  passed,  we  went  up  to  the  town 


THE    MEDITERRANEAN. 


227 


where  we  found  all  the  shops  shut,  and  flags 
suspended  from  many  of  the  windows.  At  the 
corners  of  a  great  many  streets  pavilions  were 
erected,  in  which  were  crosses  and  candles 
burning.  Before  these  the  pious  Catholic  might 
be  seen  on  his  knees,  crossing  himself  and  say- 
ing his  prayers.  At  last  we  found  a  traiteur's, 
where  we  had  an  excellent  dinner ;  washed  it 
down  witK  half  a  bottle  of  the  wine  profanely 
called  LachrymcB  Christi ;  entered  some  of  the 
churches  ;  visited  the  holy  well  —  which  is  said, 
and  I  think  with  truth  —  to  contain  the  finest 
water  in  Europe ;  took  each  a  bottle  of  it  with 
us,  and  repaired  on  board.  At  noon  the  mail- 
bags  came  alongside,  and  we  held  on  our 
course,  leaving  the  island  of  Sardinia  on  our 
starboard-quarter.  The  day,  as  usual,  was  fine ; 
various  games  and  sports  amused  us ;  and  at 
night,  the  tent  being  again  constructed,  the 
Greek  and  myself  turned  in.  At  sunrise  on 
Friday  morning  the  volcano  Stromboli  was  seen 
puffing  as  if  it  were  smoking  a  cigar.  At  eight 
A.M.  we  anchored  in  the  Bay  of  Naples ;  but 
none  save  the  mail-boat  was  allowed  to  commu- 
nicate with  the  shore  —  a  regulation  which 
raised  the  choler  of  the  many  watermen  pad- 
dling around  us,  who  abused  the  officers  in  no 
measured  language,  and  were  answered  with 
equal  warmth. 


228  A   STEAM  VOYAGE. 

At  ten  the  mail-boat  returned ;  the  anchor 
was  weighed,  and  we  steered  down  towards  the 
Straits  ot  .  During  the  afternoon  the 

coast  of  Sicily  appeared  in  sight ;  and  at  sun- 
on  Saturday  morning  we  were  in  sight  of 
:.t  .Etna,  covered  with  snow.     It  continued 
visible  nearly  the  whole  day,  and  long  after  the 
coast  of  Sicily  had  disappeared.     At  sunset  no 
land  was  to  be  seen  ;  but  at  two  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning  the  steamer  dropped  anchor  in 
the  harbor  of  the  island  of  Malta. 


229 
SONG. 

BT    O.    F.    R.    JAMES. 

SING  to  me   in   the  days  of  spring-time,  be- 
loved ; 

In  those  days  of  sweetness,  oh,  sing  to  me ! 
When  all  things  by  one  glad  spirit  are  moved — 

From  the  sky-lark  to  the  bee. 

Sing  to  me  in  the  days  of  summer-time,  dearest ; 

In  those  days  of  fire,  oh,  sing  to  me,  then  ! 
When  suns  are  brightest,  and  skies  are  clearest, 

Sing,  sing  in  the  woods  again. 

Sing  to  me  still  in  the  autumn's  glory ; 

In  the  golden  fall-time,  oh  be  not  mute  : 
Some  sweet,  wild  ditty  from  ancient  story, 

That  well  with  the  times  may  suit. 

Sing  to  me  still  in  the  hours  of  sadness, 
When  winter  across  the  sky  is  driven  ; 
But  sing  not  the  wild  tones  of  mirth  and  glad- 

ness  — 

Then  sing  of  peace  and  heaven. 
20 


230 


THE   USEFUL   FAMILY. 

ON  removing,  some  time  ago,  to  a  new  quar- 
ter of  the  town,  where  I  was  an  entire  stranger, 
one  of  my  first  businesses  was  to  look  out  for  a 
respectable  grocer,  with  whom  we  might  deal 
for  family  necessaries.  With  this  object  in 
,  I,  one  day,  shortly  after  our  settlement  in 
our  new  domicile,  sallied  out  on  an  exploring 
•  dition,  through  our  own  and  some  of  the 
adjoining  streets,  in  order,  in  the  first  place,  to 
see  what  like  the  general  run  of  shops  in  our 
neighborhood  were.  The  result  of  this  tour 
to  narrow  the  matter  of  selection  to  three 
shops  of  respectable  appearance ;  which  of 
these,  however,  I  should  eventually  patronize,  I 
did  not  at  the  moment  determine,  as  I  always 
like  to  do  things  deliberately.  This  delibera- 
tion, then,  rendered  another  tour  of  observation 
necessary. 

On  this  second  excursion,  seeing  nothing, 
even  after  a  very  careful  survey,  in  the  exter- 
nals of  either  of  the  three  shops  to  decide  my 
"'*  final  choice,  I  resolved,  in  the  conceit  of  a 
pretty  ready  appreciation  of  character,  on  being 
guided  by  the  result  of  a  glance  at  the  general 


THE    USEFUL    FAMILY.  231 

personal  appearance  of  the  respective  shop- 
keepers. On  pretence,  then,  of  examining  a 
certain  box  of  Turkey  figs  that  lay  in  the  win- 
dow of  one  of  the  shops  in  question,  I  took  a 
furtive  peep  of  the  gentleman  behind  the 
counter.  I  didn't  like  his  looks  at  all ;  he  was 
a  thin,  starved,  hungry-looking  fellow,  with  a 
long,  sharp,  red  nose,  and,  I  thought,  altogether, 
a  sort  of  person  likely  to  do  a  little  business  in 
the  short- weight  way  with  those  who  dealt  with 
him.  I  thought,  too,  from  the  glance  I  took  of 
his  head,  that  there  was  a  deficiency  in  his 
bump  of  conscientiousness.  Him,  therefore,  I 
struck  off  the  list,  and  proceeded  to  the  next. 

This  man  was,  in  all  personal  respects,  the 
very  opposite  of  the  other  ;  he  was  a  fat,  gruff, 
savage-looking  monster,  from  whom  I  did  not 
think  much  civility  was  to  be  expected  ;  nor  did 
I  like  the  act  in  which  I  found  him,  when  I 
peeped  through  the  window  —  this  was  throw- 
ing a  loaded  salt  basket  at  the  head  of  his  ap- 
prentice. Probably  it  was  deserved,  but  I  did 
not  like  the  choler  it  exhibited  —  so  I  passed  on 
to  the  third.  Here  was  a  jolly,  pleasant, 
matronly-looking  woman  for  shopkeeper.  I 
was  taken  with  her  appearance,  so  in  I  popped, 
and  we  soon  came  to  an  understanding.  I 
opened  negotiations  by  the  purchase  of  a  couple 
of  pounds  of  tea,  a  proportionable  quantity  of 


THE    USEFUL    FAMILY. 

sugar,  and  several  other  little  odds  and  ends, 
for  which  I  had  a  commission  from  my  wife. 
found  the  articles  excellent,  our  worthy, 
jolly  groceress  civil  and  obliging;  and  all,  there- 
fore, so  far  as  this  went,  was  right. 

The  grocer,  howrvi-r,  although  a  most  con- 
venient sort  of  personage,  cannot  supply  all  the 
h  of  a  family  ;  there  is  another,  still  more 
essential,  inasmuch  as  he  is  necessary  not  only 
to  our  comfort,  but  almost  to  our  existence  — 
the  baker.  \Ve  still  wanted  a  baker  ;  having 
hitherto  bought  our  bread  in  a  straggling  sort  of 
way.  What  we  wanted,  then,  was  a  regular 
baker ;  and  not  knowing  well  where  to  look  for 
one,  we  applied  to  our  obliging  groceress.  The 
worthy  woman  seemed  delighted  with  the  in- 
quiry—  wo  wondernl  why;  she  thus  solved 
the  mystery.  "  Why,  sir,"  she  said,  "  my 
son's  a  baker :  his  shop  is  just  a  little  further 
on.  He  will  be  very  happy  to  supply  you,  and 
I  undertake  to  warrant  his  giving  you  every 
satisfaction." 

Well  pleased  to  find  that  our  little  expendi- 
tures would  —  at  least  so  far  as  the  addition  of 
bread  went  — be  still  kept  in  the  family,  we 
proceeded  forthwith  to  the  shop  of  the  baker. 
It  was  a  very  respectable-looking  one,  and  the 
baker  himself  a  civil,  obliging  fellow  ;  so  we 
settled  matters  with  him  on  the  instant. 


THE   USEFUL    FAMILY.  233 

It  was,  I  think,  somewhere  about  three  weeks 
after  this,  that  our  servant-girl  brought,  along 
with  a  quantity  of  butter  for  which  she  had 
been  sent  to  Mrs.  Aikensides  —  the  name,  by 
the  way  of  our  worthy  groceress  —  a  very 
handsome  card,  which  ran  thus  :- 

"  Miss  Jane  Aikenside  begs  to  intimate  to  her 
friends  and  the  public,  that  she  has  begun  busi- 
ness in  the  millinery  and  dress-making  line,  and 
that  every  care  and  attention  will  be  bestowed 
in  the  execution  of  all  orders  with  which  she 
may  be  favored."  At  the  bottom  of  the  card — 
"  Availing  herself  of  this  opportunity,  Miss 
Mary  Aikenside  takes  the  liberty  of  announc- 
ing, that  she  continues  to  instruct  young  ladies 
in  music,  on  the  terms  formerly  advertised, 
namely,  two  guineas  per  quarter,  of  three  les- 
sons per  week." 

"  Aikenside  !  "  said  I,  on  perusing  the  card  ; 
"  who  are  they,  these  Misses  Aikenside  ?  " 

44  Relations  of  our  grocer's,  I  dare  say,"  said 
my  wife.  We  inquired,  and  found  they  were 
her  daughters. 

44  Very  fortunate,"  said  my  wife ;  u  I  was 
just  at  a  loss  where  I  should  go  with  the  girls' 
new  frocks  and  my  own  gown.  We  can't  do 
better  than  give  them  to  Mrs.  Aikenside's 
daughters." 

I  thought  so  too,  and,  moreover,  said  so  ;  but, 
20* 


234  THE   USEFUL    FAMILY. 

being  a  matter  not  within  my  province,  I  inter- 

1   no   further  in  it.     My  wife,  however,  lost 
no  time  in  calling  on  Miss  Aikenside,  who  ear- 
on   her   business  in   her  mother's  house, 

li  was  immediately  over  the  shop.  The 
inten  -factory  to  both  parties.  My 

\vas  much  pleased  with  both  the  appear- 
ance and  manners  of  Miss  Aikenside,  and  with 
the  specimens  of  work  which  she  submitted. 
The  children's  frocks  and  the  gown  were,  there- 
fore, immediately  put  into  her  hands.  The 
work  was  well  done  ;  my  wife  said  she  had  not 
seen  more  accurate  fits  for  a  long  time  ;  so, 
from  this  date,  Miss  Aikenside  got  all  our  milli- 
nery to  do. 

The  intercourse  which    this  brought  on  be- 
iiule  members  of  the  two  families 
afforded  my  wife  and  daughters  an  opportunity 
ofht  -s  Mary  Aikenside's  performances 

on  the  piano  —  for  she,  too,  resided  with  her 
mother —  with  which  they  were  all  delighted  ; 
she  was,  they  said  an  exquisite  performer ;  my 
wife  adding,  that  as  it  was  now  full  time  that 
our  two  eldest  girls  had  begun  music  (of  which, 
indeed,  we  had  been  thinking  for  some  time 
previously),  we  might  just  send  them  at  once  to 

Aikenside.  I  offered  no  objection,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  was  very  glad  that  we  could  yet 
further  patronize  the  very  respectable  familj 


THE    USEFUL    FAMILY.  235 

whose  services  we  had  already  found  so  useful ; 
so  to  Miss  Mary  Aikenside  our  two  daughters 
were  immediately  sent,  to  learn  music  ;  and 
very  rapid  progress  they  subsequently  made 
under  her  tuition. 

It  was  only  now  —  that  is,  after  my  two  girls 
had  begun  music  with  Miss  Aikenside  —  that  I 
began  to  perceive  the  oddity  of  the  circum- 
stance of  having  so  many  of  our  wants  sup- 
plied by  one  family  ;  for  I  may  as  well  add, 
the  baker,  who  was  unmarried,  also  lived  with 
his  mother.  But  this  was  an  oddity  to  be  ren- 
dered yet  more  remarkable. 

"  Mrs.  Aikenside,  my  good  lady,"  said  I, 
on  dropping  one  day  into  the  shop,  "  you  were 
good  enough,  besides  furnishing  us  with  what 
you  dealt  in  yourself,  to  tell  us  where  we  could 
be  supplied  with  what  you  did  not  deal  in. 
You  told  us  where  to  find  a  baker ;  now,  can  you 
tell  us  where  we  shall  find  a  shoemaker  —  a 
respectable  shoemaker  ?  " 

Mrs.  Aikenside  laughed.  "My  husband, 
sir,"  she  said,  "  is  a  shoemaker,  and  will  be 
much  obliged  to  you  for  any  employment  you 
may  be  pleased  to  put  in  his  way." 

I  now  laughed  too  ;  for  the  idea  was  becom- 
ing, I  thought,  exceedingly  amusing.  "  A 
shoemaker,  is  he  ?  "  said  I ;  "  that's  odd,  but 


236  THE    USEFUL    FAMILY. 

fortunate  too.     Where  is  his  shop  ?  where  does 
lie  work  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  has  no  shop,  sir ;  shop-rents  are  so 

high.     He  works  up-stairs  in  the  house;  he  has 

..all  room  set  apart  for  the  purpose.     Will 

you  walk  up  and  see  him,  sir,  if  you  please  ?  " 

•  1,  pointing  to  an   inside   stair,  which 

conducted  from  the  shop  to  the  story  above. 

I  did  so ;  and  found  Mr.  Aikenside,  a  very 
respectable-look i tig  man,  hard  at  work  in  the 
midst  of  two  or  three  journeymen  and  appren- 
tices. He  had  seen  me  several  times  in  the 
shop  before,  so  he  knew  me. 

'•  Mr.  Aikc-nside,"  said  I,  "  I  want  a  little 
work  done  in  your  v 

44  Must  happy  to  serve  you,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Aikenside. 

41  It  is  but  a  small  matter,  though  —  hardly 
worth  your  attention,  I  doubt ;  but  better  things 
will  probably  follou 

"  Don't  matter  what  it  is,  sir — don't  matter 
how  trifling.  Glad  and  ready  to  do  anything  in 
my  way,  however  small ;  always  thankful  for 
employment." 

41  Then,  sir,  we  shall  deal,"  said  I.  "  There's 
a  parcel  of  my  youngsters'  shoes  at  home  that 
stand  in  need  of  repairing." 

Send  them  over,  sir,  and  they  shall  be  done 


THE    USEFUL    FAMILY. 


237 


to  your  satisfaction  ;  or  I'll  send  one  of  these 
lads  for  them  directly." 

Here  was  an  active,  prompt,  thorough-going 
tradesman,  then  —  one  who  seemed  to  know 
what  he  was  about,  and  who,  I  had  no  doubt, 
would  do  his  work  well ;  just,  in  short,  such  a 
man  as  I  wanted. 

I  was  altogether  much  pleased  with  the  man, 
and  could  not  help  laughingly  remarking  to  him 
the  oddity  of  my  finding  so  many  of  the  wants 
of  life  supplied  by  one  family.  u  There,"  said 
I,  "  is  the  grocer,  the  baker,  the  milliner,  the 
teacher  of  music,  and  the  shoemaker,  all  in  one 
family — all  living  together." 

"  Ay,  but  you  have  forgot  one  —  there's 
another  still  to  add,"  said  Mr.  Aikenside,  ap- 
preciating the  humor  of  the  thing.  "  We  can 
furnish  you  with  a  tailor,  too ;  and  as  good  a 
hand,  I  will  say  it,  though  he  be  my  own  son, 
as  any  in  town,  be  the  other  who  he  may." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  a  tailor,  too ! "  said  I ; 
"  where  is  this  to  end  ?  Pray,  where  does  he 
hang  out  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  in  the  next  room ; "  and  he 
went  to  the  door,  and  called  out,  "  Jim,  Jim,  1 
say,  come  here  a  moment." 

Jim  came  —  a  smart,  and,  although  in  the 
loose  deshabille  of  his  calling,  genteel-looking 
lad. 


238  THE    USEFUL    FAMILY. 

u  Here,"  continued  Mr.  Aikenside,  address- 
ing  his  son  — "  here  is  a  gentleman,  whp 
doesn't  say  he  wants  anything  in  your  way 
just  now,  but  who  may,  probably,  do  so  by- 
and-! 

Jim  bowed  politely,  and  not  ungracefully, 
and  saying  he  would  be  proud  of  any  little 
share  of  my  employment  which  I  should  think 
fit  to  afford  him,  put  a  handsomely  embossed 
into  my  hand,  with  his  name-  and  other 
particulars  relative  to  his  business. 

io     children's    she-  sent    to    the 

father ;  they  were  promptly  and  well  done, 
and  the  consequence  was,  that  we  henceforth 
employed  him  both  to  make  and  mend  for  us. 

The   <  \  of  a   suit  for  one   of   my 

boys  was  soon  after  made  of  the  son's  skill  as 
a  workman  ;  it  factory  —  more  than  sat- 

isfactory. He,  therefore,  was  instantly  dubbed 
our  tailor,  and  from  this  time  given  all  our  work, 
both  old  and  new. 

So,  good  reader,  there  we  are.  This  single 
family  of  the  Aikensides,  one  way  and  another, 
get  at  least  three-fourths  of  our  entire  income  ; 
and  right  welcome  are  they  to  it,  for  they  give 
full  and  fair  value  in  return. 


239 


WE   MET   WHEN   LIFE   AND   HOPE 
WERE   NEW. 


BY    ALARIC    A.    WATTS. 

WE  met  when  life  and  hope  were  new, 

When  all  we  looked  on  smiled,  — 
And  Fancy's  wand  around  us  threw 

Enchantments,  sweet  as  wild  !  — 
Ours  were  the  light  and  bounding  hearts 

The  world  had  yet  to  wring  ;  — 
The  bloom  that,  when  it  once  departs, 

Can  know  no  second  spring  ! 

What  though  our  love  was  never  told, 

Or  breathed  in  sighs  alone  ; 
By  signs  that  would  not  be  controlled, 

Its  growing  strength  was  shown  :  — 
The  touch,  that  thrilled  us  with  delight ; 

The  glance,  by  art  untamed  ; 
In  one  short  rnoon,  as  brief  as  bright, 

That  tender  truth  proclaimed  ! 

We  parted,  chilling  looks  among  ;  — 
My  inmost  soul  was  bowed  ; 


VMO  WE    MET    WHEN    LIFE 

And  blessings  died  upon  my  tongue, 
I  dared  not  breathe  aloud  :  — 

A  pensive  smile,  serene  and  bland, 
One  thrilling  glance  —  how  vain  1 

A  pressure  of  thy  yielding  hand  :  — - 
We  never  met  again  ! 

Yet  still  a  spell  was  in  thy  name, 

Of  magic  power  to  mi', 
That  bade  me  strive  for  wealth  and  fame, 

To  make  me  worthy  tli 
And  long,  through  many  an  after-year, 

When  boyhood's  dream  had  flown, 
With  nothing  left  to  hope  or  fear, 

I  loved,  in  silence,  on ! 

More  sacred  ties  at  length  are  ours, 

As  dear  as  those  of  yore  ; 
And  later  joys,  like  autumn  flowers, 

Have  bloomed  for  us  once  more ! 
But  never  canst  thou  be  again 

What  once  thou  wert  to  me  ;  — 
I  glory  in  another's  chain  — 

And  thou'rt  no  longer  free. 

Thy  stream  of  life  glides  calmly  on, 
—  A  prosperous  lot  is  thine  — 

The  brighter,  that  it  did  not  join 
The  turbid  waves  of  mine  ! 


AND    HOPE    WERE    NEW.  241 

Yet,  oh  !  could  fondest  love  relume 

Joy's  sunshine  on  my  brow, 
Thine  scarce  can  be  a  happier  doom 

Than  I  might  boast  of  now  I 
21 


ZELICA. 

BV     THOMAS     MOORE. 

FOND  maid  !  the  sorrow  of  her  soul  was  such, 
Even  reason  sunk,  —  blighted  beneath  its  touch; 
And  though,  ere  lonir,  her  sanguine  spirit  rose 
Above  the  first  dread  pressure  of  its  woes, 
Though  health  and  bloom  returned,  the  delicate 

chain 

Of  thought,  once  tangled,  never  cleared  again. 
Warm  in  youth's  happiest  day, 

The  mind  was  still  all  there,  but  turned  astray ;  — 
A  wandering  bark,  upon  whose  pathway  shone 
All  stars  of  heaven,  except  the  guiding  one ! 
Again  she  smiled,  nay,  much  and  brightly  smiled, 
But  'twas  a  lustre  strange,  unreal,  wild; 
And  when  she  sung  to  her  lute's  touching  strain, 

I  like  the  notes,  half  ecstacy,  half  pain, 
The  bulbul  utters,  ere  her  soul  depart, 
When,  vanquished  by  some  minstrel's  powerful  art, 
She  dies  upon  the  lute  whose  sweetness  broke  her 
heart ' 


ZELICA. 


243 


Such  was  the  mood  in  which  that  mission  found 
Young  Zelica,  —  that  mission,  which  around 
The  Eastern  world,  in  every  region  blessed 
With  woman's  smile,  sought  out  its  loveliest, 
To  grace  that  galaxy  of  lips  and  eyes 
Which  the  Veiled  Prophet  destined  for  the  skies : — 
And  such  quick  welcome  as  a  spark  receives, 
Dropped  on  a  bed  of  Autumn's  withered  leaves, 
Did  every  tale  of  these  enthusiasts  find 
In  the  wild  maiden's  sorrow-blighted  mind. 
All  fire,  at  once  the  maddening  zeal  she  caught; — 
Elect  of  Paradise !  blest,  rapturous  thought ! 
Predestined  bride,  in  heaven's  eternal  dome, 
Of  some  brave  youth  —  ha !  durst  they  say  "  of 

some  ?  " 

No  —  of  the  one,  one  only  object  traced 
In  her  heart's  core  too  deep  to  be  effaced ; 
The  one  whose  memory,  fresh  as  life,  is  twined 
With  every  broken  link  of  her  lost  rnind ; 
Whose   image    lives,   though   Reason's    self  be 

wrecked, 
Safe  'mid  the  ruins  of  her  intellect! 


SONG. 

THERE  is  a  joy  in  outward  things 
That  comes  not  near  the  heart; 

There  is  a  pleasant  smile  in  which 
The  spirit  takes  no  part. 

Bring  not  to  me  that  surface  joy ; 

I  care  not  for  that  smile  :  — 
Thou  must  not  cheat  me  to  be  gay, 

And  thou  be  sad  the  while. 

But  let  me  share  thine  every  grief,  - 
Bring  all  thy  sins  to  me  : 

Thy  sorrows  and  thy  suffering 
Come  with  thy  love  to  me. 


245 


THE   PHYSICIAN'S   LEVEE. 

THEHE  is  a  certain  atmosphere  of  gloom  and 
sunshine,  of  hope  and  fear,  of  meek  expectancy 
and  impatience,  of  curiosity  and  abstraction,  of 
calm  and  restlessness,  which  pervades  the  ante- 
chamber of  a  skilful  physician,  and  which  never 
fails  to  have  its  effect  on  the  spirits  of  a  visitor. 

Some  years  ago,  circumstances  brought  me, 
among  many  others  who  were  in  search  of 
health,  into  an  apartment  such  as  I  have  alluded 
to.  On  entering  the  room,  the  stillness  which 
prevailed  was  almost  death-like.  I  seated  my- 
self on  the  first  vacant  chair,  and  as,  happily, 
the  cause  of  my  visit  to  Dr.  D.  was  not  one  of 
absorbing  interest,  I  suffered  my  mind  and  my 
eyes  to  rove  as  they  listed,  and  endeavored  to 
while  away  the  time  by  translating,  as  it  were, 
the  characters  and  feelings  of  my  companions. 
Sometimes  a  whisper  of  slight  impatience  met 
my  ear  ;  sometimes  a  sigh  from  a  solitary  indi- 
vidual, who  appeared  ashamed  of  the  weakness, 
and  whose  short  cough  betrayed  his  nervous 
sensations.  Opposite  to  me  sat  an  interesting 
girl,  of  about  eighteen,  attended  by  a  lady,  who 
watched  her  young  charge  with  an  anxiety  truly 
21* 


'2  16  THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE. 

maternal.  The  hectic  flush  which  mantled  on 
the  fair  chock  of  the  youthful  invalid  bespoke 
that  cruel  disease,  consumption.  When  the 
summons  came  for  them  to  go  to  the  physician's 
private  room,  the  face  of  the  elder  lady  hecume 

,    and    her    voice    trembled    as    the    words 
"Come,  my  love,"  passed  from  her  lips. 

I  was  ui;isinur  on  the  early  doom  that  seeim-d 
to  await  this  iicntle  maiden,  when  she  and  her 
companion  returned.  The  bright  smile  of  hope 
illumined  both  their  connvnaix-.-s,  and  they  ap- 
peared unconscious  of  any  witnesses  of  their 
feelings.  "  I  >r.  1).  considers  me  much  better, 
dearest  aunt ;  so  now  you  must  not  be  uneasy 
any  longer,"  said  the  younger  lady.  Her 
aunt  looked  at  her  fondly,  and  replied  that  her 
mind  was  greatly  relieved  —  that  she  felt  quite 
happy.  "  God  grant  that  thou  mayest  be 
spared,  since  thou  art  so  much  loved  !  "  ejacu- 
lated I  mentally,  as  the  fair  girl  quitted  the 
room. 

My  attention  was  now  directed  to  the  solitary 
person  whose  stifled  sighs  had  told  me  that  his 
sufferings  were  real,  and  patiently  borne.  He 

scarcely  in  the  prime  of  life,  but  his  cheeks 
sunk  and  wan.     His  eyes  were  too  bright 
and   sparkling   for   one  whose   image   was   so 
mournful  ;  his  apparel  hung  loosely  on  his  at- 
tenuated limbs.     He  sat  there,  waiting  his  turn, 


THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE. 


247 


without  -peaking  to  any  one,  absorbed  appa- 
rently in  his  own  thoughts.  "  Has  he  no  moth- 
er, no  sister,  no  wife  ?  "  said  I  to  myself ;  for 
with  the  idea  of  illness,  that  of  a  female  com- 
forter seems  always  associated.  But  the  door 
opened  —  the  invalid  slowly  tottered  towards  it, 
and  before  it  closed  again,  an  aged  man,  whose 
garb,  though  extremely  clean,  bespoke  penury, 
walked  meekly  into  the  room,  and  sinking  down 
into  a  chair  close  to  the  door,  he  held  his  worn 
hat  between  his  knees,  casting  his  eyes  down  to 
the  ground.  A  few  white  locks  strayed  over 
his  broad,  high  forehead,  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  was  full  of  intelligence.  It  was  evident 
that  he  was  not  an  invalid  himself,  but  was  anx- 
ious about  some  one  who  was.  I  saw  him  put 
his  hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  take 
from  it  a  very  small  paper  parcel ;  he  looked  at 
it,  pressed  it  between  his  fingers,  as  if  to  ascer- 
tain that  its  contents  were  safe,  and  then  re- 
placed it  in  his  pocket.  "  It  is  the  physician's 
fee,"  thought  I ;  "  but  Dr.  D.  will  not  take  it 
from  one  so  poor  as  thou." 

Near  to  this  venerable  man  sat  a  young 
mother  and  her  infant  child.  How  tenderly  she 
pressed  the  little  sufferer  to  her  heart,  and  how 
sadly  she  seemed  to  gaze  on  its  fair  counte- 
nance !  Ever  and  anon  she  parted  the  sunny 
locks  that  waved  with  natural  grace  over  its 


248  THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE. 

snowy  forehead,  and  frequently  her  lips  moved, 
as  she  raised  her  tear-filled  eyes  to  Heaven. 
She  was  praying  for  her  child. 

There  was  little  to  be  remarked  in  the  re- 
maining individuals  who  were  waiting  the  doc- 
tor's summons.  Some  carelessly  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  the  books  that  were  lying  on  the 
table ;  some  examined  the  paintings  that  deco- 
rated the  apartment ;  and  all  seemed  impressed 
with  a  solemn  consciousness  that  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  suffering  humanity. 

By  degrees  the  room  became  cleared,  and  I 
found  myself  alone  with  the  old  man  whom  I 
have  before  described.  When  the  summons 
came  for  me,  I  perceived  a  flush  pass  across  his 
venerable  face  ;  he  half-rose  from  his  seat, 
pressed  his  hand  to  the  corner  of  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  then  sat  down  again,  and  his  features 
resumed  their  former  patient  expression.  I  could 
not  resist  the  impulse  I  felt  to  speak  to  him. 
"  You  are,  perhaps,  more  pressed  for  time  than 
I  am,"  said  I ;  "  pray  go  now  to  Dr.  D.,  and 
say  that  I  can  wait.  Give  him  this  card,  and  he 
will  attend  to  you  first." 

"Heaven  reward  you,  sir!"  replied  he. 
"  My  only  child,  the  sole  joy  of  my  old  age, 
lies  dangerously  ill,  and  I  am  told  that  Dr.  D.  is 
very  skilful ;  so  I  am  come  to  consult  him.  It 
is  a  long  distance  to  my  home,  and  my  poor 


THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE. 


249 


boy  will  have  no  rest  while  his  father  is  absent." 
The  old  man's  voice  faltered,  and  I  felt  an  un- 
easy sensation  in  my  throat,  which  made  me 
afraid  to  risk  saying  more  than  "  Well,  lose  no 
time,  go  at  once." 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  I  began  to  hum  a 
tune  —  and  yet  I  was  in  no  merry  mood  ;  but 
often,  when  my  spirit  has  been  sad,  some  old 
air  has  pertinaciously  rung  in  my  "  mind's " 
ear,  and  to  get  rid  of  it,  as  a  humorous  friend 
of  mine  would  say,  I  have  sung  it  My  melo- 
dious powers,  however,  soon  received  a  check, 
for  a  double  rap  at  the  street-door  announced  a 
fresh  visitor.  I  heard  the  servant  say,  "  It  is 
past  twelve,  sir ;  Dr.  D.  cannot  receive  any 
more  patients  to-day."  "  I  will  not  detain  him 
five  minutes,"  replied  a  deep,  clear,  manly 
voice.  "  Pray  tell  your  master  that  this  is  a 
case  of  great  importance." 

The  servant  was  evidently  reluctant  to  go,  but 
I  concluded  the  speaker  had  prevailed  upon  him 
to  do  so,  as  I  heard  his  retreating  steps  in  the 
hall ;  and  presently  the  parlor  door  opened,  and 
a  trio  entered  which  immediately  attracted  my 
attention.  The  party  consisted  of  a  lady  in  a 
widow's  dress,  and  her  son  and  daughter,  who 
were  in  deep  mourning.  The  lady  was  appa- 
rently about  five-and-forty  years  of  age,  and 
seemed  very  ill.  Her  duteous  and  anxious 


THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE. 

children  were  so  completely  engrossed  by  their 
attentions  to  their  suffering  parent,  that  they  did 
not  appear  to  perceive  me.  They  carefully 
supported  her  to  the  sofa,  ami  then  in  a  voice 
whose  silvery  tones  I  shall  never  forget,  the 
young  lady  said,  "  Well,  sweet  mother,  you 
borne  this  fatigue  bravely  ;  and  surely  that 
is  an  earnest  of  future  good." 

"  Bless  thee,  my  child  !  "  faintly  answered 
the  invalid  ;  and  as  she  raised  her  head,  I  had 
an  opportunity  of  seeing  her  beautiful  eyes, 
which  were  of  the  deepest  blue,  and  shaded  by 
long,  dark,  silken  lashes.  Her  complexion  was 
lair  and  transparent ;  her  nose  and  mouth  most 
delicately  formed  ;  and  there  was  an  angelic 
sweetness  of  expression  in  her  countenance, 
which  I  have  never  seen  surpassed  —  seldom 
equalled.  Disease  had  indeed  weakened  the 
fragile  frame,  but  it  had  not  marred  the  lovely 
visage,  nor  destroyed  the  graceful  form.  Tho 
young  man  strongly  resembled  his  mother  in 
features  and  expression ;  but  his  complexion 
and  hair  were  dark,  his  forehead  lofty  and  finely 
formed.  His  sister  had  the  softest  dark  eyes 
imaginable ;  and  her  hair  was  of  that  beautiful 
glossy  black  that  is  so  seldom  seen,  and  which 
requires  no  art  to  give  it  lustre  ;  her  figure  was 
fairy-like  and  graceful,  and  her  small  foot  and 
hand  were  the  very  perfection  of  beauty.  And 


THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE.  251 

there  they  sat  —  the  brother  and  sister  —  one 
on  either  side  of  their  patient  mother,  watching, 
with  all  the  touching  earnestness  of  filial  affec- 
tion, for  the  slightest  intimation  of  her  wishes. 
.  They  did  love  her,  they  did  revere  her  ;  she 
was  their  joy,  their  treasure,  their  idol,  and  they 
thought  not  that  she  could  die. 

I  was  now  again  summoned  to  attend  my 
good  friend,  Dr.  D. ;  and  as  my  visit  was  merely 
one  of  dismissal,  I  soon  put  an  end  to  the  sub- 
ject of  my  own  health,  and  told  the  physician 
how  deeply  interested  I  felt  in  the  party  who 
had  just  arrived.  Dr.  D.  smiled  in  his  usual 
benevolent  way.  He  had  known  me  from  a 
child,  and  was  aware  that  I  was  somewhat  of  an 
enthusiast  and  a  castle-builder.  How  delighted  I 
used  to  be  when  I  was  permitted  to  listen  to 
that  excellent  man's  discourse  !  —  his  language 
was  so  flowing  and  elegant,  so  illustrative  of  his 
superior  tone  of  thought.  Often  have  his  pa- 
tients forgotten  their  complaints  while  he  dilated 
on  Nature's  beauties,  or  on  the  Creator's  good- 
ness. Never  did  he  prescribe  for  their  suffer- 
ing bodies  without  directing  their  hearts  and 
minds  to  Him  who  alone  could  bless  the  means 
used  for  their  recovery.  If  all  physicians  re- 
sembled Dr.  D.,  how  many  a  dying  pillow 
would  be  rendered  smooth!  how  many  a  mourner 
would  be  comforted  ! 


252  THE  PHYSICIAN'S  LEVEE. 

When  I  took  my  leave  of  the  doctor,  I  did 
not  quit  the  house.  It  was  not  an  impertinent 
curiosity  that  influenced  my  stay,  but  an  undcfin- 
able  anxiety  to  know  more  of  the  group  I  had 
left  in  the  parlor  :  so  I  reentered  the  room  as 
they  quitted  it,  and  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  I  had  forgotten  something  which  I  ought  to 
said  to  my  physician. 

The  young  man  assisted  his  mother  to  the 
private  apartment,  and  then  returned.  We  con- 
versed together  for  half  an  hour,  and  were  be- 
ginning to  forget  —  at  least  /  was  —  that  our 
acquaintance  was  so  recent,  when  the  son  \v;is 
called  to  attend  his  parent.  1  watched  them 
fn.ni  the  window  ;  —  how  gently  hr  MWSted  th<- 
poor  sufferer  into  the  carriage  !  then  handed  his 
sister  in,  and  shutting  the  door,  he  bade  the 
coachman  drive  slowly  on  ;  then  returning  into 
the  house,  he  went  to  the  doctor's  room,  and 
remained  with  him  some  time. 

a  the  being  we  hold  most  dear  is  the  suf- 
ferer, it  requires  no  small  degree  of  firmness  to 
ask  the  direct  question,  "  Is  there  any  danger? " 
There  is  a  breathless  anxiety  for  the  answer, 
which  none  but  those  who  have  experienced  it 
can  have  an  idea  of.  Hope  and  fear  struggle 
for  the  mastery ;  and  if  the  response  be  un- 
favorable, the  questioner  feels  stupified,  and 
even  the  meek  spirit  of  the  most  resigned 


THE    PHYSICIAN  S    LEVEE. 


253 


Christian  is  bowed   by  grief  too  intense   to  be 
described. 

When  the  affectionate  son  —  for  such  he  evi- 
dently was  —  reentered  the  antechamber,  his 
manly  countenance  was  expressive  of  strong 
and  painful  emotion.  As  he  drew  on  his  gloves, 
he  said  "  No  hope  !  no  hope  !  "  and  a  deep 
sigh  followed  the  involuntary  exclamation.  My 
heart  bled  for  him  :  I,  too,  had  lost  an  adored 
mother  ;  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  mourner. 
But  I  could  not  speak  —  sympathy  is  often 
silent :  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him  ;  he  grasped 
it  with  the  frankness  of  an  old  friend.  Sorrow 
frequently  prepares  the  way  for  friendship ;  it 
did  in  this  instance.  Three  months  after  this 
our  first  meeting,  the  brother  an^l  sister  and  I 
were  assembled  in  a  small,  tastefully  fitted-up 
drawing-room  ;  but  she  for  whom  it  had  been 
decorated  was  no  more  !  We  were  all  three 
mourners,  but  we  did  not  u  sorrow  as  those  who 
have  no  hope  ;  "  —  we  loved  to  talk  of  the  de- 
parted, and  we  looked  for  a  reunion  with  them 
in  a  "  better  land.' 


THE   EVENING    FIRE. 

BY      S.      MULLEN. 

THE  wintry  blast  howls  fierce  and  loud, 

Wild  whistling  through  the  leafless  wood  ; 
With  surly  haste,  the  heavy  cloud 

Rolls  darkly  on,  o'er  field  and  flood  : 
i 

Have  borne  him  far  through  mud  and  mire, 
Now  longs  to  find  a  pleasant  seat 

Before  some  country  evening  fire.  ^ 


When  blasts  of  poverty  assail, 

And,  stripped  of  fortune  and  of  friends, 
You  see  the  homeless  orphan  quail, 

one  by  one  each  comfort  ends ; 
And  chilly  night  comes  darkly  on, 

While  cold  and  want  awake  desire, 
Oh,  kindly  bid  his  fears  begone, 

And  cheer  him  by  your  evening  fire  ! 

From  yonder  coast  behold  the  sea, 
Impetuous,  dash  wild  waves  on  high, 

When  Boreas,  with  his  blusterers  free, 
Roams  wildly  o'er  the  frighted  sky  : 


THE    EVENING    F1RR,  255 

The  sailor,  —  on  the  ocean  tossed, 
The  blinding  storm  yet  raging  higher, 

By  adverse  winds  unkindly  crossed, — 
Would  laugh  before  your  evening  fire. 

The  lonely  prisoner,  —  long  confined 

In  dismal  dungeon,  damp  and  drear, — 
Feels  all  that  sickness  of  the  mind 

Which  darkens  hope  and  feeds  his  fear  ; 
When  harshly  sounds  the  grating  key, 

And  slow  the  turnkeys  gruff  retire, 
How  joyous  would  his  feelings  be 

To  rest  before  his  evening  fire. 

'Tis  joyful,  when  the  cares  of  day 

Are  hushed  to  silence  and  repose, 
To  bid  the  wheel  of  labor  stay, 

And  see  the  screening  shutters  close  ! 
And  then  to  meet  a  knot  of  friends, 

While  social  joys  each  breast  inspire  ; 
And  cark,  and  care,  and  sorrow  ends 

Around  the  cheerful  evening  fire. 


CELESTINA,    A   SPANISH    STORY. 

BY    F LOR I AN. 

CELESTIN.A,  in  !i  year,  was  the 

Granada.  She  was  an  orphan, 
and  the  heiress  of  a  large  fortune  ;  and  lived 
under  the  guardianship  of  her  uncle  AUur/o,  an 
old  and  avaricious  man,  who  occupied  his  days 
in  counting  his  ducats,  and  1.  :n  silenc- 

ing  the  serenades  with  which  his  i  •  ach 

evening*:  ;.     He  designed   lor  her  his 

only  -  D  I  l<n:  •;;</.  a  notorious  dunce.  The 
beauty  of  Celestina  -  'hat  almost  all 

the  young  cavaliers  of  (Iranada  wert  in  love 
with  her  ;  an<i 

cept  at  mass,  the  church  which  si. 
crowded  with  -  Don 

Pedro,  a  young  man  of  :nl  captain    in 

a  troop  of  horse,  was  preeminent.  Handsome, 
gentle,  witty,  the  eyes  of  all  the  ladies  of  Gran- 
ada were  attracted  by  him,  while  among  them 
all  he  saw  only  Celestina ;  and  she,  who  could 
not  avoid  perceiving  this,  felt  herself  gradually 
influenced  by  the  dumb  eloquence  of  his  eyes, 
and  could  not  help  replying  by  soft  glances. 


CELESTINA.  257 

Thus  passed  a  month,  when  Don  Pedro  found 
means  to  convey  a  letter  to  his  mistress,  inform- 
ing her  of  what  she  already  well  knew.  As 
soon  as  she  had  read  this  epistle,  the  cruel  Ce- 
lestina  sent  it  back  to  Don  Pedro  in  great  indig- 
nation. But  she  had  a  remarkably  retentive 
memory,  and  did  not  forget  a  word  of  what  she 
had  read,  and  eight  days  afterwards  was  able  to 
give  a  distinct  reply  to  every  paragraph.  But 
Don  Pedro  had  perseverance,  and  Celestina  had 
charity,  and  at  length  consented  to  talk  to  him 
at  her  window,  according  to  the  Spanish  fashion, 
where  windows  are  of  more  service  by  night 
than  by  day,  and  are  the  old  established  meeting- 
places  of  impassioned  lovers.  There,  when 
the  street  is  deserted,  the  lover  appears,  gliding 
cautiously  along,  muifled  in  his  cloak,  and  his 
faithful  sword  in  his  hand.  He  approaches  the 
window,  defended  with  strong  bars  on  the  out- 
side and  shutters  within.  But  the  shutters  are 
gently  unclosed,  and  the  lovely  Spaniard  ap- 
pears :  her  trembling  voice  awakes  the  low 
echoes  of  the  night  in  a  murmured  inquiry  if 
none  is  waiting  beneath  her  window  ;  her  lover 
answers,  vows  are  exchanged,  and  even  kisses 
pass  between  the  envious  gratings.  But  the  day 
is  breaking  —  they  must  part  :  an  hour  is  spent 
in  breathing  forth  their  passionate  adieus  ;  and 
22* 


258  CELESTINA. 

separate,    eaving  unsaid  a  niultituclc  of 
••essnry  to  hi-  imparted. 

.(low   was  at   tin1  back  of  the 

house,  and  looked  upon  a  piece  of  waste  ground, 

ml  which  \v   poor  ill-built   houses 

belonging  to  the  lowest  class  of  people.      Don 

/s  old   nurse    happened  to  live  in  a  room 

immediately    opposite    to   CYKstitufs    window. 

1  to  seem-  nt  to  his 

nurse,  an  uning  himself  for  having  so 

long  neglecteil  -nsisted  on  removing  her 

to  his  ov.  The  poor  woman,  allected 

even  to  tears  by  th<-  •  of  her  foster-son, 

refused   his  o:i  •  ;  but,  at  length   giving 

.  she  left  her  old   apartments  to  his  care, 

and  was  installed  at  Don  1  >use. 

Never  was  king  more  happy  at  taking  pos- 
session of  a  throne,  than  was  Don  Pedro  when 
he  found  bin  ailed  in  the  miserable 

apartment  abandoned  by  his  nurse.  He  spent 
the  day  in  watching  the  mov>  his  mis- 

tress, and  the  night  in  conversing  beneath  her 
window ;  but  this  happiness  was  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  the  arrival  of  Henriquez,  the  intended 
husband  of  Celestina,  who  made  his  appear- 
ance bearing  in  his  hand  a  declaration  of  love, 
written  for  him  in  Latin  by  his,  tutor. 

That  night  an  earnest  consultation  was  held 


CELESTINA.     ^  259 

at  the  window,  and  meantime  the  contract  of 
marriage  was  in  preparation,  and  the  marriage- 
day  was  fixed.  A  flight  to  Portugal  was  deter- 
mined on  as  the  only  means  to  avoid  so  direful 
a  catastrophe,  and  it  was  settled  that  they  should 
get  married  as  soon  as  they  should  reach  Lis- 
bon, and  make  terms  with  her  guardian  after- 
wards. Celestina  was  to  provide  herself  with  a 
casket  of  jewels  which  had  been  left  her  by  her 
mother  ;  this  was  of  considerable  value,  and  on 
its  proceeds  they  were  to  support  themselves 
until  their  affairs  were  settled.  Nothing  was 
needed  but  the  key  of  the  grating,  which  Ce- 
lestina undertook  to  procure.  Eleven  o'clock 
the  next  night  was  fixed1  for  the  escape.  Pedro 
was  to  provide  horses  outside  the  gates,  and  was 
to  meet  Celestina  at  that  hour,  assist  her  in  her 
descent,  and  fly  with  her  to  Portugal.  Never 
was  there  a  better-planned  elopement. 

Don  Pedro  employed  all  the  next  day  in  mak- 
ing preparations  for  his  departure.  Celestina 
arranged  and  rearranged  her  jewel-box  twenty 
times  over,  and  was  particularly  careful  not  to 
forget  a  beautiful  emerald  which  her  lover  had 
presented  to  her.  Celestina  and  her  casket  were 
quite  ready  by  eight  o'clock,  and  it  was  not 
quite  ten  when  Pedro,  who  had  sent  his  carriage 
forward,  approached  the  rendezvous. 

As  he  drew  near,  he   heard   a  voice  calling 


260  ^      CELESTINA. 

for  help,  and  perceived  t\vo  men  attcked  by  live 

bruvos,  who,  armed  with  swords  and  bludgeons, 

I    on    the  point    of    overpowering     them. 

uural  bravery  would  not  allow  him   to 

j'urty   undefended  :   he   drew 

and    rushed    to  their    assistance  ;  he 

quickly  wounded  two  of  the  assailants,  and  the 

others  took  to  flight.      What  was  his  surprise   in 

reco_  men    he    had    pivserved    no 

others  than  Dun  Al<»n/<>  and  h:s  son  1  Ienri<iuex  ! 

The  young   cavaliers   of  the    town    who    wi-iv 

enamored    of    Celcslina,  and    were    aware    that 

she  was  about  to  be  married   to  llrnricmc/,  had 

been  base  enough  to   hire  assassins   1< 

:,   but    for  the   bravery  of  Don    Pedro, 
would  have  succeeded  in    th  :i.      Pedro 

did  I 

acknowledgments,  but    llfuriijut-/.,  who  prided 
-elf  on  having  acquired   politeness  at 

him  home  and  ! 

ing  him  there  all  night.  Pedro  was  in  despair, 
for  the  clock  had  already  struck  eleven.  Alas  ! 
he  did  not  even  guess  the  extent  of  his  misfor- 
tune 

One  of  the  bravos  who  ran  from  the  fray, 
passed  muffled  up  in  his  cloak  beneath  Celes- 
tina's  window.  It  was  a  dark  night  ;  and  the 
anxious  girl,  who  had  opened  the  grating,  per- 
ceived him,  and  mistaking  him  for  Pedro,  called 


._  I 


CELESTINA.  261 

gently  to  him,  and  full  of  joy  and  impatience 
handed  him  the  casket.  "  Take  these  diamonds, 
Don  Pedro,"  she  said,  "  and  Hold  them  for  me 
while  I  descend."  The  bravo,  hearing  these 
words,  eagerly  snatched  the  casket,  and  made 
off  without  speaking  a  word  ;  and  while  Celes- 
tina  was  getting  out,  he  had  already  fled  to  a 
distance.  What  was  the  terror  and  surprise  of 
poor  Celestina  when  she  found  herself  alone  in 
the  street,  and  could  nowhere  perceive  him 
whom  she  had  mistaken  for  Don  Pedro  !  Her 
first  idea  was  that  he  had  gone  forward  for  fear 
of  exciting  suspicion  by  standing  beneath  tlu> 
window,  and  she  followed  the  way  she  supposed 
him  to  be  gone,  calling  him  softly  as  she  hast- 
ened along.  No  answer  was  returned,  and  she 
was  seized  with  terror.  What  should  she  do  ? 
Should  she  return  to  her  uncle's  house,  or  should 
she  leave  the  city  and  endeavor  to  find  the  ser- 
vants who  were  waiting  for  Don  Pedro  ?  She 
balanced  these  doubts  in  her  mind,  but  could 
not  determine.  Still  she  walked  onward  :  she 
soon  became  bewildered,  and  knew  not  where 
she  was.  Presently  she  met  a  man,  and  in- 
quired of  him  if  she  was  near  the  city  gate. 
He  pointed  out  the  way  to  her.  This  gave  her 
courage  :  she  hastened  onwards,  and  soon  was 
beyond  the  walls  of  Granada,  but  she  could  not 
discover  any  one  in  waiting.  She  had  no  thought 


CEI.EST; 
• 

of  blaming  or  misdoubting  her  lover  :  she  hoped 
bringing   her  nearer  to  him  ; 
ami  ;ed  llic  highway,  trembling  at  each 

bush,  and  calling  on  Don  Pedro  at  every  step. 
But  the  farther  sin-  went,  the  farther  was  she 
iVuin  tin:  right  track.  She  had  left  the  city  by 
the  gate  directly  o,  »  the  road  to  For- 

tugal. 

'•ould    not  dis' 

nini  r'ume/.  and  his  father.     They 

would  not  quit   him,  and   ahsolu:  i   him 

to  enter  the  house  with  them  ;  and  Pedro,  hoping 
that  Celesiina  wuuld  hear  of  his  arrival,  reluc- 
tantly complied.  Alonzo  went  directly  to  his 
niece's  room,  to  tell  her  of  the  danger  from 
winch  her  intended  husband  had  so  fortunately 
escaped.  He  called,  but  received  no  answer  : 
he  entered,  and  was  horrified  when  he  beheld 
the  open  window.  His  cries  soon  brought  the 
servants,  and  the  alarm  was  given  all  over  the 
house.  Pedro,  in  despair,  declared  he  would 
run  to  seek  her  ;  and  Henriquez,  thanking  him 
for  his  friendly  sympathy,  prepared  to  accom- 
pany him.  But  Pedro  avoided  this  by  proposing 
that  they  should  take  different  roads  ;  and  not 
doubting  that  Celestina  had  taken  the  road  to 
Portugal,  he  offered  to  seek  her  in  that  direction, 
and  proposed  that  Henriquez  should  pursue  the 
opposite  path. 


CELESTINA.  263 

¥• 

The  unhappy  Celestina  was  on  the  road  to 
the  Alpuxaras,  when  she  thought  she  heard  the 
sound  of  horses'  feet.  Her  first  thought  was 
that  Don  Pedro  was  seeking  her,  but  her  second 
was  the  fear  of  travellers  or  brigands ;  and, 
trembling  with  terror,  she  crept  behind  a  bush 
by  the  road-side,  from  whence  she  beheld  Hen- 
riquez  and  several  attendants  pass  by.  Dread 
ing  to  fall  once  more  into  the  power  of  Alonzo, 
she  turned  from  the  high  road,  and  plunged  into 
the  surrounding  wood.  The  Alpuxaras  are  a 
chain  of  mountains  extending  from  Granada  to 
the  sea  ;  they  are  inhabited  only  by  shepherds 
and  laborers.  An  arid  and  stony  soil,  a  few 
chestnut-trees  scattered  here  and  there,  torrents, 
and  roaring  waterfalls,  and  a  few  goats  wander- 
ing among  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  were 
the  objects  beheld  by  Celestina  in  the  first  light 
of  the  morning.  Worn  out  with  grief  and  fa- 
tigue, and  her  feet  wounded  by  the  rough  stones, 
she  seated  herself  on  a  rock,  beside  which 
trickled  a  little  rill.  The  silence  of  the  place, 
—  the  wild  country  around  her,  —  the  sound  of 
many  waterfalls  subdued  by  distance,  and  the 
murmur  of  the  rill  falling  into  the  basin  it  had 
worn,  all  united  to  remind  poor  Celestina  of  her 
unhappy  fate  —  abandoned  in  a  desert  by  all 
the  world.  Her  tears  fell  fast  as  she  reflected 
on  her  situation,  but  she  thought  more  of  Don 


•j<;  i 

>.    "  It  was  not  to  him,"  thought  she,  "  that 

•,..•  the  iliumon  :  was  it  tlwt  I  could 

Ah  !   why  did  not  my  heart  warn 

I  know  he   is  seeking 

in   me,  and    1  shall 

r  auay  from  him  !  " 

.mournful  thou.  suddenly  inter- 

rupted  by  the   sound  of  a  flute,  and    presently 

iieard  a  sweet  hut  uncult/ 
a  rustic  air,  in  which   the  fleeting   pK 
lovo  are  deplored,  and  the    ino»n>;an>-y   of  a 
lover  was  complained  of.     Celestina  rose  to  dis- 
cover the  musician,  and  at  no  great  dis 
discovered  a  young  goatherd,  sitting   beneath  a 
willow,  watching   with  tearful  eyes  the   v 
that  flowed  at  his  feet :  he  held  a  flute  in  his 
hand,  and  by  his  side  lay  a  stick  and  a  small 
bundle  wrapped  up  in  a  goat-skin. 

"  You  seem  to  be  abandoned  and  cast  off, " 
said  Celestina  to  the  strong  '  pity  on 

one  who,  like  yourself,  is  so  also.  Direct  me,  I 
beg  of  you,  to  some  house  or  village  among 
these  mountains,  where  I  may  find,  not  repose, 
—  that,  alas  !  is  impossible, —  but  food." 

"  Alas,  madam  !  "  replied  the  goatherd,  "  I 
would  with  pleasure  conduct  you  myself  to 
Gadara,  which  lies  behind  these  rocks  ;  but  you 
would  not  desire  me  to  return,  if  you  knew  that 
my  mistress  is  to  be  married  this  day  to  my  ri- 


CELEST1NA. 


265 


val.  I  am  about  to  leave  these  mountains,  never 
more  to  return  ;  and  I  carry  nothing  with  me 
but  my  flute,  a  suit  of  clothes  in  this  bundle, 
and  the  remembrance  of  my  lost  happiness." 

These  words  inspired  Celestina  with  a  new 
design.  "  My  friend,"  said  she,  "you  have  no 
money,  and  you  will  need  it.  I  have  a,  few 
pieces  of  gold,  which  I  will  divide  with  you,  if 
you  will  give  me  the  dress  in  your  bundle." 
The  goatherd  accepted  her  offer.  Celestina 
gave  him  twelve  ducats,  and,  after  receiving 
direction^  as  to  the  road  to  Gadara,  took  leave 
of  the  goatherd,  and,  retiring  among  the  rocks, 
put  on  the  dress  she  had  purchased. 

Thus  equipped,  she  took  the  road  to  the  vil- 
lage, and,  entering  the  market-place,  inquired 
of  the  peasants  she  found  assembled  there,  if 
none  of  them  wanted  a  farm-servant.  They 
gathered  round  her,  and  looked  at  her  with  sur- 
prise :  the  young  girls  especially  admired  her 
beautiful  fair  hair,  which  flowed  over  her  should- 
ers ;  her  mild,  sparkling  eyes,  modestly  cast 
down  ;  and  her  light,  slender  figure.  Nobody 
could  imagine  where  this  beautiful  young  man 
could  have  come  from.  One  supposed  it  was  a 
great  lord  in  disguise  ;  another,  that  it  was  a 
prince  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  shepherd- 
ess ;  and  the  magistrate  assured  them  that  it 
23 


CELESTINA. 

Apollo,  who  had  returned  a  second  time  lo 
take  care  of  their  sheep. 

Celestina,  who  had  taken  the  name  of  Mar- 
celio, was  not  long  in   finding  a  master ;   no 
other  than  the   old  alcade  of  the  village,  who 
regarded  as  the  most  worthy  man  in  all  the 
country.     This  good  farmer  (for  the  alcades  of 
the  villages  are  not  of  higher  rank)  soon  con- 
:;dship  for  Marcelio.     Before 
a  month  1  took  him  from  the  care 

of  his  flock,  and  put  all  his  huusehold  under  his 
charge  ;  and  acquitted  himself  with 

such  mildness  and  fidelity  as  to  be  beloved  by 
both  master  and  servants.  At  the  end  of  six 
months,  the  alcade,  wh<>  .-  than  eighty 

years  old,  left  •  care  of  his  property  to 

Marcelio  ;  he  even  consulted  him  on  the  causes 
which  came  before  him  for  his  decision,  and  he 
had  never  made  such  just  cl<  since  ho 

had  been  directed  by  Marcelio.  Marcelio  was 
the  pattern  and  the  delight  of  the  village  ;  his 
mildness,  his  grace,  his  wisdom,  gained  all 
hearts.  *'  Behold,"  said  the  mothers  to  their 
sons,  — "  behold  this  handsome  Marcelio :  he 
is  always  with  his  master  :  he  is  unceasingly 
occupied  in  making  his  old  age  happy,  and 
does  not,  like  you,  leave  his  work  to  run  after 
the  village  girls." 


I 

CELESTINA.  267 

Thus  two  years  passed  away.  Celestina, 
whose  thoughts  were  always  occupied  with  Don 
Pedro,  had  secretly  sent  a  shepherd,  on  whom 
she  could  rely,  to  make  inquiries  at  Granada 
concerning  her  lover,  Alonzo,  and  Henriquez. 
The  shepherd  reported  that  Alonzo  was  dead, 
that  Henriquez  was  married,  and  that  nothing 
had  been  heard  of  Don  Pedro  for  two  years. 
Celestina  now  lost  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  him 
again,  and  endeavored  to  accustom  herself  to 
her  lot,  and  to  find  happiness  in  the  peace  and 
friendship  she  enjoyed  in  the  village.  The  old 
alcade  at  length  fell  dangerously  ill.  Marcelio 
paid  him  all  the  attention  of  the  most  affection- 
ate son,  and  the  old  man  behaved  like  a  grate- 
ful father,  and  at  his  death  left  all  his  property 
to  his  faithful  Marcelio. 

All  the  villagers  mourned  their  alcade,  and, 
after  rendering  him  the  funeral  honors  with 
more  tears  than  pomp,  they  assembled  to  elect 
his  successor.  In  Spain,  certain  villages  pos- 
sess the  privilege  of  electing  their  alcades,  — 
that  is  to  say,  the  magistrate  who  judges  all 
suits,  takes  cognizance  of  all  crimes,  causes  the 
guilty  to  be  taken  into  custody,  examines  them, 
and  delivers  them  over  to  the  superior  jurisdic- 
tion, which  generally  confirms  the  sentence 
passed  by  the  alcade, 

The  assembled  villagers  unanimously  elected 


•JOS  CI:LESTINA. 

him  whom  the  old  alcado  had  designed  for  his 
successor.  The  old  men,  followed  by  all  the 
youngsters  of  the  village,  went  in  formal  pro- 
cession to  carry  the  ensign  of  his  dignity,  a 
white  wand,  to  Marcelio.  Celestina  accepted 

with  this  testi- 
mony of  the  aflection  of  these  honest  people, 
she  resolved  to  c«-  hrr  lite,  formerly 

destined  for  love,  to  their  happiness. 

Leaving   the  new  ale.  with  the  cares 

of  oiV  •  return  to  the  unfjrtnnatr  Pedro, 

left  galloping  on  the  road  to  Portugal, 

and  at  each  step  increasin  nice  from 

his  bclovi 

reached  Lisbon  without  obtaining  any  in- 
telligence of  Celestina.  11-  retraced  his  steps, 
and  made  every  possib!<  i,  and  returned 

again  to  Lisbon  with  no  better  fortune.  After 
six  months  of  fruitless  inquiry,  he  felt  satisfied 
that  Celestina  had  not  returned  to  Granada,  and 
he  resolved  to  go  to  Seville,  where  he  knew  she 
had  relations.  He  found,  on  his  arrival,  that 
they  had  just  sailed  in  the  Mexican  fleet ;  and, 
doubting  not  that  there  he  should  recover  his 
long-lost  mistress  in  Mexico,  he  hastened  on 
board  the  last  vessel  in  the  fleet,  which  was  on 
the  point  of  sailing.  He  arrived  safely,  discov- 
ered the  relations  of  Celestina,  but  they  knew 
nothing  concerning  her.  He  returned  to  Spain  : 


CELESTINA.  269 

the  vessel  encountered  a  storm,  and  was  wrecked 
on  the  coast  of  Granada.  Don  Pedro  and  some 
others  of  the  passengers  escaped,  and,  proceed- 
ing into  the  mountains  in  search  of  shelter, 
were  led  by  chance  or  Cupid  to  Gadara. 

Don  Pedro  and  his  companions  went  into  the 
first  inn  they  came  to  ;  and  they  were  congrat- 
ulating each  other  on  their  escape,  when  a  dis- 
pute arose  between  one  of  the  passengers  and 
a  soldier,  concerning  a  casket  which  the  soldier 
had  saved  and  the  passenger  claimed  as  his 
property.  Don  Pedro,  who  endeavored  to 
settle  the  quarrel,  proposed  that  the  passenger, 
in  order  to  prove  his  claim,  should  state  what 
the  box  contained  ;  which  was  done,  and  the 
box  opened  to  ascertain  if  what  was  said  were 
true :  but  what  was  the  surprise  of  Don  Pedro 
when  he  recognized  Celestina's  jewels,  and 
among  them  the  emerald  he  had  given  her ! 

"  How  did  you  come  by  these  jewels  ?  "  he 
demanded  of  the  passenger,  in  a  voice  of  fury. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  "  replied  the  pre- 
tended owner,  "  it  is  enough  that  they  belong 
to  me  ;  "  —  and  so  saying,  he  attempted  to 
snatch  them  from  Don  Pedro,  who  repulsed 
him,  and  both  drawing  their  swords,  they  fought, 
and  after  a  few  passes  the  passenger  fell 
wounded.  Don  Pedro  was  seized  and  hurried 
to  prison,  and  the  master  of  the  inn  sent  his 
23* 


'-'70  CELESTINA. 


to  fetch  the  cure  to  attend  the  dying  man, 

while  lie  himself  ran  with  the  casl*et  to  the  al- 

cade,  and  informed  him  of  what  had  happened. 

What  was  the  surprise,  the  joy,  the  terror  of 

Celestina,  on    recognizing    her   diamonds,  and 

challenged  by  the 

gentleman  who  was   in  custody  !     She  went  at 
once  to  the  inn  where  the  cure    had    already  ar- 
:  ;    and    i:  »d    man,    who   hrlir\rd 

elf  dying,  affected  by  h.  : ions,  ac- 

knowledged to  the  alcade  that,  two  years  before, 
as  he  was  passing  at  night  through  a  strc< 
Granada,  .   at  a  window  gave  him  the 

casket,  telling  him  to   hold   it  while  she   came 

:th  the  jewels,  and 

he  begged  pardon  of  God  for  the  robbery.  Ce- 
lestina hastened  to  the  prison  :  how  her  heart 
beat  as  she  went !  She  quickened  her  steps  : 
.tiling  proved  that  it  was  Don  Pedro  whom 
she  was  about  to  behold,  \>ui  she  feared  being 
recognized  by  him.  She  pulled  her  hat  down 
over  her  eyes,  muffled  herself  in  her  cloak, 
and,  preceded  by  a  turnkey  who  carried  a 
light,  she  entered  the  dungeon. 

She  was  scarcely  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
when  she  recognized  Don  Pedro.  Joy  almost 
took  away  her  senses.  She  leaned  against  the 
wall ;  her  head  declined  on  her  shoulder,  and 
the  tears  flowed  down  her  cheeks.  By  a  great 


CELESTINA.  271 

effort  she  repressed  her  emotion,  and  forcing 
herself  to  speak  boldly,  she  approached  the 
prisoner.  "  Stranger,"  said  she,  in  a  feigned 
voice,  and  often  pausing  to  take  breath,  "  you 
have  wounded  your  companion,  it  is  feared  to 
death.  •  What  have  you  to  say  to  excuse  such 
an  action  ?  "  After  speaking  these  words  she 
could  no  longer  support  herself,  but,  sitting 
down  on  a  stone,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  Alcade,"  replied  Don  Pedro,  "  I  have  com- 
mitted no  crime  ;  it  was  but  an  act  of  justice  ; 
but  I  desire  death,  for  death  alone  can  end  the 
misfortunes  of  which  that  wretch  was  the  first 
cause."  He  said  no  more,  but  the  name  of 
Celestina  was  heard  upon  his  lips. 

Celestina  trembled  when  she  heard  him  pro- 
nounce her  name  :  she  was  no  longer  mistress 
of  her  transport;  she  rose,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  throwing  herself  into  the  arms  of  her 
lover,  when  the  presence  of  the  gaoler  re- 
strained her.  She  turned  away  her  eyes,  and, 
stifling  her  sobs,  desired  to,  be  left  alone  with 
the  prisoner.  She  was  obeyed.  Suffering  her 
tears  of  joy  to  flow  more  freely,  she  now  ap- 
proached Don  Pedro,  and  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  she  said,  in  a  voice  interrupted  by  her 
sobs,  "  You  still  love  her,  who  lives  but  for 
you  ?  " 


272  CELI 


At  that  voice,  at  those  words,  Pedro  raised 
his  head,  and  scarcely  dared  to  believe  his 
s  :  "  Oh,  heaven,  is  it  you  ?  is  it  my  Celes- 
(ina,  or  an  angel  who  takes  her  figure  ?  Ah,  t 
is  thee  !  "  cried  he,  pressing  her  in  his  arms, 
and  bathing  her  with  his  tears  :  "  it  is  my  wife, 
my  friend  —  all  my  misfortunes  are  ended." 

And  it  was  so.  As  the  wounded  man  proved 
likely  to  recover,  Celestina  had  power  to  re- 
store Don  Pedro  to  liberty,  and,  assembling  all 
the  villagers,  she  publicly  declared  her  sex  and 
her  s  ami  resigned  her  office;  and 

presenting  Don  Pedro  to  them  as  her  intended 
husband,  requested  the  cure  to  complete  her 
happiness  by  uniting  them.  But  now  one  of 
the  old  villagers  stepped  forth.  "  Oh,  stranger,1' 
said  he,  1  you  take  from  us  our  al- 

cade  ?  his  loss  we  cannot  repair.  Condescend 
to  remain  with  us  ;  be  yourself  our  alcade,  our 
master,  our  friend.  In  a  great  city,  the  cow- 
ardly and  the  wicked,  who  have  the  same  rank, 
will  think  themselves  your  equals;  —  here, 
each  virtuous  inhabitant  will  look  upon  you  as 
a  father." 

Pedro,  whose  wanderings  had  made  him  well 
inclined  to  rest,  and  who  loved  the  people  by 
whom  his  Celestina  was  so  honored,  consented. 
Two  days  after,  the  lovers  were  married,  and 
never  was  a  bridal  feast  celebrated  more 


CELESTINA.  273 

blithely.  Pedro  paid  one  more  visit  to  cities, 
and  then  bade  adieu  to  them  for  ever.  He  vis- 
ited Granada,  and,  after  a  tedious  process,  suc- 
ceeded in  recovering  his  wife's  fortune  from 
Henriquez :  he  then  retired  to  Gadara,  where 
he  and  Celestina  lived  long,  well,  and  happily. 
They  were  mourned  for  by  those  who  looked 
upon  them  with  love  and  veneration,  and  their 
memory  is  revered  to  this  day. 


274 
THE   ARAB   MAID. 

BY     L.     E.     L. 

FaoM  the  dark  and  sunless  caverns 
\Vh»  n  dwell; 

By  the  palm-trees  of  the  desert, 
Springeth  forth  ;i  i 

S  Jll  the  shadow  of  its  birth-place 
Ml  upon  t;. 

Haunted  with  ancestral  darkness, 
From  its  central  c 


Aiiow  the  sunshine, 
Dark  it  is  and  deep  ; 

iis  at  noontide 
Do  the  planets  sleep. 
Round  it  lies  the  sculptured  marble 

Of  some  ancient  town, 
Lonii  since,  with  its  towers  and  temples, 
To  the  dust  gone  down. 

Yet  it  shareth  with  the  present  ; 

For  the  winds  that  pass 
Catch  its  freshness,  and  around  it 

Grows  the  pleasant  grass. 


THE    ARAB    MAID.  275 

Over  it  the  fragrant  tamarind 

Sheds  its  early  leaves  ; 
And  the  pelican's  white  bosom 

From  it  life  receives. 

Not  alone  to  the  far  planets, 

When  the  sun  is  bright, 
Does  it  serve  a  clear,  dark  mirror, 

For  their  haunting  light : 
But  a  dream  of  human  beauty 

Lingers  on  its  tide  ; 
Never  yet  were  stars  so  lovely 

As  the  eyes  beside. 

4 

Lovely  is  the  Arab  maiden, 

Leaning  thoughtful  there  ; 
While  the  languid  gale  of  evening 

Lifts  not  her  black  hair. 
Purple  is  her  broidered  caftan  ; 

And  the  golden  band 
Tells  she  is  a  chieftain's  daughter 

In  that  eastern  land. 

Scarcely  has  she  left  her  childhood, 

Yet  a  deeper  trace 
Than  our  first  and  careless  summers 

Is  upon  her  face. 
On  that  youthful  cheek  is  paleness  ; 

For  the  heart's  repose 


276  THE  ARAB    MAID. 

Is  disturbed  by  dreams  and  fancies 
That  deny  the  rose. 


Touched  with  tender  melancholy 
Is  the  youth  of  love. 

Of  its  clouds  abu 
Doth  her  heart  call  up  one  image, 

Unavowed  how  d« 
For  acknov  'oo  timid, 

Yet  too  fond  : 

Will  the  stately  dark-i-vr.!  warrior 

Bear  her  to  his  tent  ?  — 

;ning  of  her  lover, 

What  sad  thoughts  are  blent ! 
When  they  fling  the  veil,  rose-colored, 

O'er  the  parting  bride  ; 
Not  alone  does  it  hide  blushes  — 

w  V8"«  V    VH« 


277 


FEMALE    DEVOTEDNESS. 

EVENTS,  which  are  sometimes  to  be  found  in 
the  records  of  history,  are  not  unfrequently  as 
strange,  as  dark,  and  as  tragical,  as  the  most 
sombre  fictions  of  romance.  In  the  reign  of 
Francis  I.  there  served  in  the  armies  a  gentle- 
man of  the  island  of  Corsica,  named  Sampietro 
Bartelica  ;  he  was  more  known  and  esteemed 
for  his  valor  than  for  his  fortune,  or  the  great- 
ness of  his  family  ;  he  always  manifested  an 
attachment  to  France,  and  by  his  fidelity,  dis- 
played a  striking  contrast  to  the  conduct  of  the 
Genoese,  who  were  masters  of  Corsica,  and 
who,  without  any  apparent  reason,  were  con- 
stantly revolting  against  the  power  of  France. 
Sampietro  was  present  at  numerous  sieges  and 
engagements,  in  which  he  had  always  greatly 
distinguished  himself.  After  the  death  of  Fran- 
cis I.,  in  1546,  he  returned  to  Corsica,  where  he 
married  Vannina,  daughter  and  only  heiress  of 
Francisco  d'Ornano,  whose  family  was  one  of 
the  most  noble  and  most  ancient  of  the  isle. 
His  reputation  alone  procured  him  this  impor- 
tant alliance.  His  popularity  among  his  country- 
24 


FEMALE    DEVOTEDNESS. 

rendered  him  formidable  to  the  Genoese, 
who  resolved  on  his  destruction.  Giovanni 

I  Spinola,  the  governor  of  the  island,  sent 
an  order  for  him  to  repair,  with  his  father-in-law, 
to  the  citadel  of  Bas'.ia,  where  there  is  every 
reason  to  bel it  uild  have  been  put  to 

i,  but  for  the  powerful  intercession  of  the 
:,  Henry  II.  Sampietro  «  d  a  grate- 

ful recollection  of  this  service,  and  at  tho  same 
time  conceived  a  deadly  hatred  to  the  Genoese, 
with  ardent  thirst  for  vengeance.  War  having 
broke  out  in  Italy,  in  1551,  he  served  in  the 
campaign,  and  his  assistance  was  found  to  be 
very  valuable  by  Octavio  Farnese,  whom  the 
King  of  France  had  taken  under  his  protection. 
Sampietro  then  instigated  the  French  Govern- 
ment to  attempt  the  subjugation  of  Corsica.  In 
this  expedition  he  accompanied  M.de  Thermos, 
subsequently  a  ;  irshal,  and  was  accom- 

panied by  some  of  the  bravest  of  the  islanders, 
who  were  attracted  by  his  renown,  and  were 
discontented  with  the  Genoese  :  the  latter  were 
driven  from  the  principal  town.  Sampietro  was 
recalled  to  France,  and  returned,  in  September, 
1  .").">">,  to  Corsica,  where  he  continued  to  carry 
on  the  war.  The  peace  of  Chateau  Cambreses, 
in  1559,  and  the  fatal  death  of  Henry  II.,  in- 
duced him  to  take  other  measures.  He  resolved 


FEMALE    DEVOTEUNESS.  279 

to  proceed  to  Constantinople,  to  demand  assist- 
ance there  ;  as  the  Genoese  had  confiscated  all 
his  property,  and  had  set  a  price  upon  his  head, 
he  determined  to  drive  them  to  extremities. 
During  his  absence  on  this  mission,  he  was  in- 
formed that  Donna  d'Ornana,  his  wife,  whom 
he  had  left  at  Marseilles,  had  resolved  to  pass 
over  to  Genoa  ;  this  intelligence  nearly  rendered 
him  desperate :  he  sent  Antonio  de  San  Fior- 
enzo,  one  of  his  followers,  to  prevent  her  :  she 
had  been  persuaded,  that  she  might  obtain  her 
husband's  pardon  from  the  Republic,  and  her 
anxiety  on  this  subject  induced  her  to  take  this 
resolution.  Sampietro,  on  his  return,  found  his 
wife  at  Aix ;  lie  accompanied  her  back  to  Mar- 
seilles, and  coldly  informed  her  that  she  must 
prepare  to  die.  Vannina  obeyed  with  calmness, 
and  asked  but  one  favor  of  her  husband,  that 
as  no  man  but  himself  had  ever  laid  hands  on 
her,  that  she  might  have  the  same  privilege  at 
that  moment,  and  might  die  by  his  hands  !  It 
is  said  that  Sampietro  dropped  on  his  knees, 
called  her  his  love,  asked  her  forgiveness,  and 
then  strangled  her  with  a  napkin.  So  atrocious 
an  action  greatly  tarnished  the  reputation  of 
Sampietro,  who  returned  to  Corsica  in  1564, 
effected  an  insurrection  throughout  the  whole 
island,  although  he  had  but  five  and  twenty  men 


230  fKMALE    DEVOTEDNKSS. 

with  him  when  he  first  arrived  :  he  was  suc- 
cessful in  several  actions,  and  took  many  cities 
and  fortresses  from  the  Genoese,  who  instigated 
Vitelli,  one  of  his  captains,  to  assassinate  him, 
in  the  month  of  January,  1567. 


'JPON   THY   TRUTH   RELYING. 

BY    T.     H.    BAYLY. 

THEY  say  we  are  too  young  to  love  — 

Too  wild  to  be  united  ; 
In  scorn  they  bid  us  both  renounce 

The  fond  vows  we  have  plighted. 
They  send  ihee  forth  to  see  the  world, 

Thy  love  by  absence  trying  ; 
Then  go  ;  for  I  can  smile  farewell  — 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 

I  know  that  pleasure's  hand  will  throw 

Her  silken  nets  about  1hee  ; 
[  know  how  lonesome  I  shall  find 

The  long,  long  days  without  thee. 
But  in  thy  letters  there'll  be  joy ; 

The  reading  —  the  replying : 
''II  kiss  each  word  that's  traced  by  thee- 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 

When  friends  applaud  thee,  I'll  sit  by, 

In  silent  rapture  gazing  ; 
And,  oh  !  how  proud  of  being  loved 

By  her  they  have  been  praising ! 
24* 


28*2  UPON    THY    TRUTH    RELYING. 

But  should  detraction  breathe  thy  name, 

The  world's  reproof  defying, 
Til  love  thce  —  Uiud  tliee  —  trust  theo  still  — 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 


KYn  those  who  smile  to  see  us  part 

Shall  sec  us  meet  with  wonder ; 
Such  trials  only  make  the  heart 

That  truly  loves  grow  fonder. 
Our  sorrows  past  shall  be  our  pride, 

\Vli*»n  with  each  other  vying, 
Thou  wilt  confide  in  him,  who  lives 

Upon  thy  truth  relying. 


283 


THOUGHTS. 

•••**•    "I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  si_blime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  was  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  SKV,  and  in  tne  mind  of  man." 

WORDSWORTH. 

THE  day  was  closing  in,  and  as  I  sat  watching 
the  scarcely  moving  foliage  of  a  neighboring 
elm,  my  mind  gradually  sank  into  a  state  of 
luxurious  repose,  amounting  to  total  uncon- 
sciousness of  all  the  busy  sights  and  sounds  of 
earth. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  seated  by  a 
calm,  deep  lake,  surrounded  by  graceful  and 
breezy  shrubbery,  and  listening  to  most  delicious 
music.  The  landscape  differed  from  anything 
I  had  ever  seen.  Light  seemed  to  be  in  every- 
thing, and  to  emanate  from  everything,  like  a 
glory.  Yet  I  felt  at  home ;  and  could  I  see  a 
painting  of  it,  I  should  know  it  as  readily  as  the 
scenes  of  my  childhood.  And  so  it  is  with  a 
multitude  of  thoughts  that  come  suddenly  into 
the  soul,  new  as  visitants  from  farthest  Saturn, 


284  THOUGHTS. 

yet  familiar  as  a  mother's  voice.  Whence  do 
they  come  ?  Is  Plato's  suggestion  something 
more  than  poe;r\  .;  I  I;ivc  we  indeed  formerly 
lived  in  a  luminous  and  shadowless  world,  where 
all  things  wear  light  as  a  garment  ?  And  are 
our  bright  and  beautiful  thoughts  but  casual 
glimpses  of  that  former  state  ?  Are  all  our 
hopes  and  aspirations  nothing  but  recollections? 
Is  it  to  th<  :s  of  memory's  broken  mirror 

we  owe  the  thousand  fantastic  forms  of  grand- 
eur, or  of  loveliness,  which  fancy  calls  her 


own 


And  the  gifted  ones,  who  now  and  then  blaze 
upon  the  world,  and  "  darken  nations  when 
they  die,"  —  do  they  differ  from  other  mortals 
only  in  more  cloudless  reminiscences  of  their 
heavenly  home  ? 

Or  are  we  living  separate  existences,  at  one 
and  the  same  time  ?  Are  not  our  souls  wan- 
dering in  the  spirit-land  while  our  bodies  are  on 
earth  ?  And  when  in  slumber,  or  deep  qui- 
etude of  thought,  we  cast  off  "  this  mortal  coil," 
do  we  not  gather  up  imagies  of  reality,  that 
seem  to  us  like  poetry  ?  Might  not  the  restless 
spirit  of  Byron  have  indeed  learned  of  "  arch- 
angels ruined  "  those  potent  words,  which,  like 
infernal  magic,  arouse  every  sleeping  demon 
in  the  human  heart  ? 

Are  dreams  merely  visits  to  our  spirit-home  ; 


THOUGHTS.  285 

and  are  we  in  sleep  really  talking  with  the  souls 
of  those  whose  voices  we  seem  to  hear  ? 

As  death  approaches  and  earth  recedes,  do 
we  not  more  clearly  see  that  spiritual  world,  in 
which  we  have  all  along  been  living,  though  we 
knew  it  not  ?  The  dying  man  tells  us  of  at- 
tendant angels  hovering  round  him.  Perchance 
it  is  no  vision  —  they  may  have  often  been  with 
him,  but  his  inward  eye  was  dim,  and  he  saw 
them  not.  What  Is  that  mysterious  expression, 
so  holy  and  so  strange,  so  beautiful  yet  so  fear- 
ful, on  the  countenance  of  one  whose  soul  has 
just  departed  ?  Is  it  the  glorious  light  of  at- 
tendant seraphs,  the  luminous  shadow  of  which 
rests  awhile  on  the  countenance  of  the  dead  ? 
Does  infancy  owe  to  this  angel  crowd  its  pe- 
culiar power  to  purify  and  bless  ? 


286 


REMEMBRANCE. 

BY     SOUTHEY. 

MAN  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage 

As  through  the  world  he  wends  ; 
On  every  stage  from  youth  to  age 

Still  discontent  att- 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 

To  school  a  little  exile  goes, 

Torn  from  his  mother's  arms, — 
What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes, 

When  novelty  hnth  lost  its  charms  ? 
Condemned  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 

And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  she  counts  the  hours, 

Before  his  wished  return. 
From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules, 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools, 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam  : 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye 


KEMEMBRANCE.  287 

While  he  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes  ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harassed  heart 

Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  youth,  as  fancy  tells, 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy  ? 
Ah  no  !  for  hopes  too  long  delayed, 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betrayed, 

The  fabled  bliss  destroy  ; 
And  youth  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  careless  days  of  infancy. 

Maturer  manhood  now  arrives, 

And  other  thoughts  come  on  ; 
But  with  the  baseless  hooes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone  ; 
Cold  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed, 

The  dull  realities  of  truth  ; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye, 
Remembering  with  an  envious  sigh 

The  happy  dreams  of  youth. 

So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 
Of  this  our  mortal  pilgrimage, 


289  REMEMBRANCE. 

With  feeble  step  and  slow  ; 
New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 
And  old  experience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 
Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by, 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er, 
Yet  age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


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